We Are Now the Inquisition
by waiting4morning
Summary: Shorts, one shots, and drabbles based on the third game in the Dragon Age series: Inquisition. Features Inquisitors of different origins and various romances.
1. Hazy

Well I knew I probably wouldn't be able to resist writing something before the game came out.

This story is spoilery for the gameplay trailer!

Inspired by the iPod shuffle challenge, except with Pandora. Today's song, _Hazy_ by Rosi Golan

* * *

The rip looked wrong—_felt_ wrong. Lieutenant Gould squeezed the hilt of his sword for its comforting solidness. What were they going to do? He'd been tasked with guarding the outside of the building where important work was going on. The Chantry and the mages of the rebellion had finally met to discuss peace. Now... now this _thing_ had happened.

He was a soldier, dammit, not some lyrium-addled templar. What was he going to against demons and mages? That rip was like nothing he'd ever seen before. He knew about the Fade of course; all people went there to dream, but no one—except mages maybe—thought about it while awake. But there it was, rippling like a heat hallucination. Except it wasn't a hallucination. Gould had been tasked with watching it while his squad looked around for survivors.

All they'd found so far were bodies of those from the Chantry and mages both.

Mages. Gould inhaled slowly through his helmet. What if this wasn't an accident; what if the mages had come here with only the show of talking peacefully and then had killed everyone?

But... wait, they'd found plenty of mage bodies. Were they so lost that they would kill themselves in order to get at the Chantry?

"Lieutenant!"

Gould turned his eyes from the wavering Fade for a moment. Commander Carson was running up to him.

"Any activity at your post?" she demanded as soon as she was within speaking range.

"None, ma'am," he replied. "If there were any survivors, they haven't come this way. I don't like the look of that rip, though. Demons liable to come pouring out any minute."

She nodded. "We'll have reinforcements soon. Messenger bird just arrived. Seekers."

Gould exhaled in relief. "That's something then. Maybe we should—"

Carson went stiff, hand whipping to her sword. Gould whirled.

"Maker's breath..."

Something was moving in the rip. For a moment, the image seemed hazy as if the figure had paused for a moment on the threshold, then an armored leg stepped through from the Fade into the real world. It was a person, not a demon, and they were armored as if for war...

The figure took one look at the two soldiers watching them, then collapsed onto the rubble of the courtyard.


	2. Prompt: Make me your memory

The Dragon Age Livejournal community has started up it's prompt fest again, so inspiration has struck!

This story is going off a little pet theory I have about the Inquisitor. I kind of hope it's not true, but I couldn't get the idea out of my head. Needless to say, spoilers!

Prompt: Make me your memory

* * *

Elanor stared at the family tree. The House of Trevelyan had a long and noble history. She had two parents, still living, and two brothers and a sister.

She wished she could remember them.

The mark on her hand pulsed and she flexed her fingers, instinctively repressing the surge of power that sang within her. Was this how mages felt? Constantly assaulted by urges and abilities that threatened to break free?

Vivienne hadn't been much help. Despite her background as First Enchanter, Elanor's strange ability was beyond anything she'd ever heard about. Solas alone seemed unperturbed by it. He was intrigued enough to do what research he could. It was this research in a musty library that he'd found the family tree., completely by accident

Elanor traced the spidery lines of the parchment again. down to her name: _Elanor_.

How had she known her name when she woke up from the cataclysm that tore the Veil? It was the only thing she remembered; the only piece of herself that she still had.

"You look troubled," said a voice above her. Elanor looked up to see Cullen settle into a chair across from her camp table. She smiled, pleased to see him. Cullen alone out of her companions didn't treat her like some sort of strange creature of the Fade. The others respected her, of course, and some even liked her, but Cullen was... well, he seemed to understand that Fade mark or no, she still buckled her boots just like everyone else.

"Just looking at the family tree again," she admitted, putting the parchment down. "I should stop. With all the chaos going on, worrying about my lost memories should be the last thing on my mind."

Cullen shrugged. "Our past is part of who we are. It's natural that you'd want to reclaim it."

Elanor's eyes fell again to the parchment. "I just wish I had something more to go on." She pointed at a smudged line. "See this here? I might have an aunt, but as far as my memories are concerned, I have no one. Nothing." She swallowed. "I'm a complete non entity with nothing to anchor to."

Cullen's hand slid across the table and covered her own. "Elanor."

She looked up at the use of her given name and sucked in a breath, realizing how close they were sitting.

"I... I have hesitated to speak," he said, fumbling a bit over his words, "but I cannot... even in my stupidity I cannot have been mistaken in your... your affection, can I?"

"Cullen..." she whispered, eyes wide. He squeezed her hand, smiling, his expression tender.

"Elanor... make me your anchor; your memory. When you feel yourself falling into the void of your past, I would like it if you would think of me instead. I cannot be your past, perhaps. But I would like to be... your future." His cheeks were stained pink and he swallowed hard. "I do not speak out of turn, I hope?" His eyes searched hers.

Elanor brought up her hand that was holding his, and gently kissed his sword-calloused fingers. He made a strangled sound in his throat.

"No," she said with a slow smile. "You do not."


	3. Prompt: Blue skies

**Prompt: Blue skies**

Seeing as we know next to nothing what the backgrounds for the various inquisitors are, I couldn't help but wonder what the background for a qunari inquisitor would be like, especially since all we know is that he or she is Tal-Vashoth. Technically, the inquisitor in this drabble only makes a cameo appearance. So is this a spoiler? Not really, since it's all made-up headcanon happening way before the game, but here's a warning anyway.

* * *

The hold of the ship is dark and damp. She-Who-No-Longer-Is curls up on the driest bit of blanket she manage while the ship rocks and quakes beneath her, threatening the residence of the last meal she ate. Pinching the tender skin under her bicep makes the nausea fade into the background of pain. She can't afford to lose the food she ate. It is needed for a task greater than herself.

A fluttering of movement. She presses her hand to her slightly swollen abdomen, urging the little one to take sustenance, to grow, to live, to _be_...

And what would the child be in this land of people who did not have a place? She-Who-No-Longer-Is closes her eyes in momentary concentration. It is still hard to shift aside the ways of thought so ingrained into her as if written on her bones. She reminds herself with an effort that this child may be Sten, or Farmer, or Craftsman, or something else entirely. The child would be free to choose. _And that is... good. Different, but different can be good.  
_  
A few others share the hold with her. Most of them are _bas_, but She-Who-No-Longer-Is scans each of them again as she did when first entering the hold. The Ben-Hassrath had been known to track down Vashoth using viddathari. It was easy to dismiss the squat peoples of the southern lands, but any escapee from the Qun did so at their own peril.

Again, however, her scrutiny revealed that her fellow passengers were nothing more than they seemed to be at the beginning of this cursed journey: a thin elf of indeterminate gender with slave tattoos badly hidden under burn scars, a dark-skinned human clutching a bag to her chest, and an old dwarf mumbling to himself.

She-Who-No-Longer-Is yearns for a breath of fresh air, not this fetid stench that they'd been breathing for days now. But did she dare risk showing her horns on deck, easily visible to anyone following that might see? _Patience_, she repeats to herself, rubbing her sloshing belly. _I was Blacksmith once. I can wait a little longer for the steel to temper._

Suddenly, she stiffens, hearing something besides the ever-present hiss of the sea and the dim shouts of the sailors above: the shrill, clear cry of a gull. She is standing on shaking legs—slightly bent because she is too tall to stand upright in the hold—and is at the bottom of the stairs that lead to the deck before she is even aware of moving.

The others watch her with dazed expressions.

She waits.

After what seem like hours, a crack of light expands into a blaze of glorious, searing warmth. She-Who-No-Longer-Is throws an arm over her eyes, hissing with pain. The bas all scuttle away from the shaft of sunlight like rats, crying out as the light burns eyes too long used to the dark.

"We're arrived," said a voice from above.

She-Who-No-Longer-Is waits until she can open her eyes without pain and climbs the wooden stairs, one hand on her stomach as if hold the child in place more than her own body could. Behind her is the sea, gray and merciless like the Arishok himself. Resolutely, she turns her back on the sea, and looks instead to the land she has chosen as her home. Her eyes are still watering, so it seems no more than a smudge of brown and green. Brown and pink blobs scurry around on the pier, becoming sailors and dockworkers once her eyes clear.

Above are blue skies stretching far and wide. White clouds skid along the horizon, remainders of the rain that plagued their journey yesterday. But that is the past. The blue is the future.

"Guess you're officially Tal-Vashoth, now, huh?" said the former elf slave coming out of the hold to stand beside her. She glanced down, noting with mild surprise the low, masculine voice that came from the spindly little body.

"No," she said, after a moment, "my name..." She swallowed, the enormity of the choice suddenly looming over her. The child within fluttered again, giving her courage. She breathed out, glancing up as she did so. "My name is Sky."


	4. Prompt: I'm just an old woman

**Prompt: I'm just an old woman**

A/N: Will not make sense without the previous drabble.

* * *

The bulky shadow slipped from the forge at the edge of the town square, paused to glance around, and hurried into the night-filled streets.

Like so many nights before, Sky Adaar walked along the silent streets. She could still faintly smell the smoky sweet scent of the heather burning that had been taking place on the countryside surrounding the city. It was a pleasant exchange for the smells that usually assaulted her nose during the day: animals going to market, unwashed bodies, and the contents of chamber pots which missed the waste channels built into the streets for that purpose.

She paused outside the alienage of Starkhaven. The front gates were, as usual, guarded by two yawning city guardsmen, but Sky stayed well clear of them, hesitating in the shadows. Every night this week she'd come at least this far, but every other night she'd returned home, hoping instead for a solution that never presented itself.

A whimper emerged from the bundle slung against her chest. Sky froze, but the guardsmen were so sleep-deprived they didn't appear to have noticed anything. Her child's noise, however, reminded her of what was at stake. Slowly, she edged through the shadows until rounding the side of the alienage that held nothing but empty stalls waiting the next Market Day's business. Behind one such stall was a pale section of the fence. It had been recently repaired. Sky felt along the edges of the section and slid it out and over, like a pendulum, to reveal a gap.

The hole was a tight squeeze, having been meant for smaller, slender elf bodies and not tall ones with horns, but she managed. The massive trunk of a tree obscured the hole from the inside and she edged around it. The alienage wasn't as quiet as the city outside. Muffled cries, animals scavenging in a nearby alley, and the low rumble of voices from an illicit tavern echoed around the small space.

Sky moved quickly through the alienage. She'd only been there a few times: once to fix the axel of a wagon too big to move to her shop, and, more recently, to fix the hole in the fence with a special nail that allowed easy access to the outside.

The hovel she paused at was no different than the others, except for a spray of wilted flowers gasping for life in an inadequate patch of dirt under the window. Sky hesitated once more, then knocked.

The Hahren answered the door more quickly than she expected. The old elf's already wide eyes grew even bigger at the sight of Sky looming outside her door.

"What are you—? Never mind. Come in. Quickly."

The tips of Sky's horns brushed the ceiling as the old woman peered outside and closed the door behind her.

"What are you doing here this time of night?" the gray-haired elf woman asked, her bird-like features wreathed in confusion.

In answer, Sky opened her cloak, revealing her child clutched close to her chest, and then a bandage wrapped around her upper arm. The Hahren's eyes glanced at the bandage then back at Sky.

"I need help," the gray-skinned woman said.

#

"So, your child is a mage," said the Hahren, sipping on warm, bitter chicory tea. The child still slept in her mother's arms, bound against her chest by a length of cloth.

"I'm not scared of her," Sky said, her fingers touching the velvety nubs that would, in only a couple of years, grow into proper horns.

"I didn't say you were," the Hahren said mildly. "But she's hurt you."

Sky hesitated. "Yes. But not on purpose. She was very distressed afterwards, only..."

"She can't control it," finished the Hahren in a soft voice.

Sky didn't reply, only continued to stroke her sleeping child's hair.

"Why did you come here, to my house?" asked the Hahren.

Sky lifted her gaze. "You're an elf. Elves know of such things as magic. I thought..." She trailed off.

"My dear, I'm only an old woman with no skills other than the meager talents the Maker gave me."

Sky's hands stilled.

"The Circle isn't completely bad," the Hahren offered hesitantly. "Most of our children feel it is a privilege to escape these walls. A life at the Circle is in some ways better than a life as a city elf."

"No," Sky said, eyes bright and dagger sharp. "No Circle. No templars. No..." She swallowed what she was going to say. "I've seen what they've done to... to the mages that displease them. Those things with dead eyes..." Sky shuddered. "The templars would watch her always, suspicious of what she is. No... no Circle."

The Hahren cocked her head. "Just out of curiosity, how are mages treated among your own people?"

Sky stilled, her mouth trembling as her skin turned a sickly ashen gray. "You do not want to know," she whispered. "The Circle mages are free as birds compared to the _saarebas_."

"She needs trained, Sky," the Hahren said, after a pause. "She will certainly be discovered by a templar sooner or later."

Sky's arms folded around her child. "We will have to leave then. I will not give her up to the templars."

The Hahren hesitated, looking at the gray-skinned woman and was reminded of the service she had done them in fixing the wall so that the elves could have some limited freedom at night, and the fact that the horned woman also had pointed ears. Perhaps qunari and elves were cousins of a sort. To an elf, family was everything. The Hahren sighed, then scooted her chair a little closer, lowering her voice. "There... may be one other option."

Sky raised her eyes.

"My grandson is an apostate. He was trained by the Circle but escaped a few years ago. He's not had an easy life-what elf does?-but he's talented and wise and a good lad. And," she finished, setting down her cup, "he's coming to visit in a few days, sneaking in with a betrothal delegation from the alienage of Kirkwall. Perhaps he can advise you better than I can."

Sky nodded. "I would be grateful."

#

From her forge, open at the front, Sky was able to watch the small group of elves arrive in the city, escorted by a few guardsmen. She scanned the faces as she pumped the billows, but none of them stood out, except for a young woman with flowers braided into her hair. The prospective bride perhaps.

None of the others looked like a mage. But that was a good thing, Sky reminded herself. If this apostate, this unshackled mage knew how to blend in, she would need that knowledge for her daughter.

Sky waited throughout the day as tense as leather pulled tight to wrap a sword's hilt, and, finally, just before she was about to close shop, an elf appeared at her forge.

"If you have time, Serah," the elf said, "the Hahren asks if you could come repair one of the fences near the school."

Sky nodded. "Let me get my tools." She walked into the small house that joined the smithy. Her daughter was playing on the floor with carved wooden soldiers. "Child, we are going to the alienage. Come."

Tool bag over her shoulder and child by the hand, Sky followed her elven guide to the alienage, this time through the main gate. The guardsmen watched but made no other comment. It wasn't unusual for her to enter the alienage to fix something.

The elf guided her to a small fenced off yard that actually had a patch of grass for the children to play on. It was a quiet spot, the children having been let out of school already, and Sky let her own little one plunk down on the greenery to resume play with her soldiers.

Sky examined the fence but could find no obvious breaks. A quiet step made her look up. An elf with a thatch of messy brown hair stood a few feet away, observing her child, then looking back at Sky. He was plain featured for an elf, and though elves more than the general populace tended to blend in anyway, he was so nondescript that he might have been a piece of furniture.

He smiled, transforming his face into something that was almost good-looking. "My grandmother said a qunari needed my advice on magic. I almost didn't believe her until now."

Sky stood. "I am not qunari. You would call me Tal-Vashoth, but my name is Sky."

"Apologies," he said, nodding. "My name is Bryon." He glanced at her child, who looked up, interested in the exchange. "This must be your mageling."

Sky's fingers clenched around her tool bag. "Yes."

Bryon cocked his head. "It's harder to tell with your kind, but how young is she? Magic typically doesn't appear until between 10 and 13 years in humans and elves."

"She was born seven years ago."

Bryon's eyebrows shot up. "And she is displaying magic already?"

"It started in winter. About six months ago."

He crouched at the child's side. "Hello there. What's your name?"

"Today it's Soldier," the little girl said, looking at him curiously, head cocked.

Bryon glanced up at Sky, who smiled fondly. "She will choose her own name when she is old enough. At the moment, she changes from day to day." She paused. "This morning she was Rainbow."

Bryon nodded, seeming to take it in stride after his initial surprise. "Well, Soldier, can you show me some ice? Like this?" He cupped his palm and a snowball formed from nothing.

The gray child's eyes widened. "Mama says I'm not 'posed to do that," she whispered.

"You may try this once," Sky said, glancing up to make sure they were still alone in the back alley.

The child nodded and frowned, concentrating. At first nothing happened, but droplets of water began to coalesce on the girl's hand. She stopped after a moment, pouting. "I can't do it today."

"It's alright. That's very good," Bryon said, and stood to his feet.

"The Hahren said you could advise me," Sky said in a low voice taking a step away from the girl happily playing with her soldiers again.

"My grandmother said you were against the Circle?" Bryon said, looking at her, searching her face.

Sky nodded.

Bryon hesitated. "I did not come here intending to do anything other than advise you, but…" He blew out a breath. "I will take her as an apprentice, if that will suit you."

Sky blinked. "You… would teach her."

"Yes. I have been Circle-trained. I know how to give her a good education—I may have become a teacher myself had I desired to remain in the Circle. But she will be free of the templars and I can teach her how to hide her magic."

Sky relaxed. "Thank you. I had hoped something like this would be possible." She paused at the discomfort on Bryon's face. "What is it?"

"I am an apostate. I cannot remain in one place for too long. If you truly wish me to take your daughter as an apprentice, I would leave in a couple of days, after the wedding. Your child would need to go with me." He paused, letting that sink in. "It wouldn't be forever. We would be able to return at least once a year, perhaps more. I would also be able to write from time to time, and so would she." He paused again. "Or she could stay here and join the Circle. The Starkhaven circle isn't incredibly bad, as far as Circles go. And she will be discovered, this year or next. The templars know the signs."

Sky crossed her arms over her chest. "Why are you offering to do this? I have been in the Free Marches long enough to know that bas rarely do something for nothing. What do you get out of this?"

"Fair enough." Bryon nodded. "I was telling the truth earlier: I enjoy teaching, and I haven't had much opportunity to do it. Also," he hesitated, "there was a child of my own once. He was born in the Circle and taken away from his mother and I before we even had time to name him. We were both powerless to stop it." He swallowed. "No child should be taken from their parents by the templars. If I can stop that from happening to your daughter, I would feel that I have at least begun to atone for letting my own be taken from me."

Silence fell between them.

"Mama, look, I did it!" The gray child bounced over, showing hands encased in ice.

Bryon sucked in a breath and clasped the child's hands in his. "Careful, little one, you could get frostbite from yourself," he said in a voice that seemed calm, but Sky could hear the tension underneath. The ice, however, melted at his touch, wisps of steam rising into the air.

Sky rested her hand on her daughter's head, feeling resignation settle into her bones. "In a few days?" she said, looking back at the elf mage.

"A few days," he repeated. "I can come by the smithy to pick her up the evening I depart."

"She will be ready."

-end-


	5. Prompt: I fear no man

A/N: More of my qunari inquisitor headcanon, written pre-game release. This one can stand alone as a story, though it technically goes with the previous two drabbles.

"Qunari," according to Gaider, is both the species and the name of the religious adherent. Tal-Vashoth is a qunari that has renounced the Qun completely and actively fights against it.

**Prompt: I fear no man. But that... thing... it scares me**

* * *

Thorn Adaar followed the slender, red-haired woman into the tavern, the Seeker Cassandra following behind. Normally, the sight of a qunari with a mage's staff caused some pause whenever Thorn entered a public setting, but this place was well into its cups and didn't seem capable of focusing on three more newcomers. Besides, there were plenty of oddities already... Thorn spotted two mage staves carried openly and no one seemed to be paying them any mind.

Interesting.

Ahead of her, Leliana paused at a table near the back, allowing Thorn and Cassandra to come up beside her. Thorn caught sight of the largest occupant of the table and stiffened, gripping her staff.

"Inquisitor, this is my contact," Leliana said, "Iron Bull."

"Greetings," said the gigantic horned male without looking up, picking up a rack of roast pork ribs from his plate and shoving the whole thing in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed, spitting out a few ribs onto his plate. Swiping the back of his wrist across his mouth, the qunari finally looked up. "So you're this Inquisitor I've been hearing—" He paused, seeing the color of her skin and the horns she'd made no effort to hide under a cowl. He grinned. "_Shenadan_."

The greeting in what should have been her native tongue sent shivers down her spine. Thorn glared at Leliana. "You didn't say he was qunari."

Leliana raised an eyebrow. "You didn't ask. However," she continued, "Bull has been a contact of mine for a couple of years now. I have found his information reliable, and his physical prowess speaks for itself. He will be a valuable asset to the Inquisition." The smaller woman leaned in a bit closer, lowering her voice. "Can we afford to be choosy now, Adaar? The fate of the world hangs in the balance and a strong sword arm and good information may mean the difference between defeat and victory."

Thorn huffed out a breath that was almost a sigh. "Very well," she said slowly. "I will hear him out at the very least."

"Good. Sit down then," Bull said, gesturing at a few of the other armed men sitting around the table to vacate their spots for the newcomers.

"Here?" Thorn looked around the seedy little tavern.

"We won't be overheard," Leliana said. "It is far too noisy."

"I'll stand back and watch the crowd," Cassandra said, speaking for the first time.

Thorn nodded and edged onto the bench across from the one-eyed qunari who was now guzzling down an ale from a tankard that had to be at least double capacity. When she adjusted the staff strapped to her back, so it didn't bump the floor, his casual manner disappeared and he seemed to be a bit more alert than he was before.

"Well, I guess that answers that question," he said, accepting another platter of ribs from a passing waitress.

"What question?"

Bull lifted half the rack to his mouth and chewed. "Whether you're Ben-Hassrath like me or Vashoth. You must have been born here. No saarebas I've ever seen at home still has both horns and lips that haven't been sewn shut."

Thorn had her staff at his neck so fast that even Leliana didn't have time to stop her. The sound of swords sliding out of scabbards sounded all around them.

"Adaar!" said Cassandra in sharp warning.

"We're leaving," Thorn said in a tight voice, not taking her eyes from Bull. Strangely, he hadn't stopped grinning and was attempting to continue to eat around her staff.

"Inquisitor, I—" Leliana started, but Thorn glared at her.

"Do you even know what the Ben-Hassrath are? What they do to my kind? To _any_ that subvert the Qun?"

Leliana blinked. "I knew Bull was Ben-Hassrath," she said slowly. "But he's not a danger to you."

Thorn forced out a laugh. "Then your intelligence gathering is inadequate at best. The Ben-Hassrath are—"

"My assignment is not to hunt down Vashoth," Bull interrupted, trying to swat aside her staff and failing. He blinked in surprise. Thorn hid a grim smile. Looked like he was used to his size and strength being able to handle anything thrown at him. Well she'd show him that not every obstacle he encountered would would just get out of his way just because he wished it.

"The Chantry girl is right," he continued, looking around the room. "Settle down boys. I got this."

Mutters of conversation resumed around them. Thorn held Bull's gaze. "I'm merely an information gatherer for the Ben-Hassrath," he said. "And I'm good at it. The way I see it, if I don't have to sneak around and hide the fact that I'm taking notes about you, the easier my job is. In return, I'll tell you what I can and you'll have my network at your disposal. Besides," he noted with a huff of laughter. "Between the giant hole in the sky and a random stray Vashoth, what do you think has the attention of the qunari more?"

Thorn hesitated a moment longer, than removed her staff from his neck and replaced it in its hook at her back. "You make a fair point. And," she added, reluctantly, "we do have need of your skills. "

"Excellent!" Bull said, grinning again. "My usual fee applies." He addressed this last to Leliana.

Thorn's eyebrows rose. "You're being paid to join the Inquisition?"

"I'm a mercenary, not a charity drive," Bull pointed out, rising to his substantial height. The points of his horns grazed the beams of the ceiling. "So, where to?"

#

Varric, standing guard outside, whistled under his breath when the party emerged with their newest recruit.

"Didn't know we were getting another, uh, you," he muttered under his breath, falling into step beside Thorn.

"Neither did I," she said, keeping an eye on Bull's broad back in front of her. He was speaking with Cassandra about something. She could hear the occasional word floating back on the air to him. Sounded like they were going over details of his involvement with the Inquisition.

Varric glanced at her, trotting to keep up with her longer stride. She slowed down to give him a break. "You don't sound happy about that."

"He's qunari. Worse, he's Ben-Hassrath," she hissed.

"Oh." He scratched his chin. "I think I've met one of those before. She was a lot easier on the eyes though."

She made no response, and Varric looked up at her again.

"Thorny," he said in a low voice. "You're not... scared of this bruiser, are you?"

"I've never been afraid of anyone in my life," she said after a pause. "Not even templars. But Ben-Hassrath..." She swallowed. "They were who my mother ran from when she escaped Par Vollen. They were the ones that killed my master for no other reason except that he was _in the way_." Her voice shook with anger. "He died protecting me, and now I have to work with one of them."

Varric was silent for a moment. "Well, me an' Bianca will always have your back. Say the word and I'll put a crossbow bolt in a place that's sensitive for any man, no matter how big and tough he is."

Thorn grinned. "If it comes to it, you can have the first shot."

-end-


	6. Prompt: Everything to everyone

**Prompt: Everything to Everyone**

* * *

Cassandra paused at the entrance for what passed for a mess hall in Skyhold. It was really nothing more than a handful mismatched tables and a few rather disreputable looking chairs. But it was a place to eat and strategize at the same time. Though the Inquisitor had already complained more than once about someone smearing mustard all over her large vellum map. Consequently, she'd pinned it to a large table and dragged it to the front of the room with dire warnings against anyone else who so much as sneezed on it.

The Inquisitor herself was sitting a table near the back with Leliana and Iron Bull. Cassandra hesitated, then moved inside. She would catch the Inquisitor when she was finished.

Varric sat off to the side of the main table near the front of the room, scribbling something down on a scrap of paper. Cassandra narrowed her eyes.

"I know that look," she said, walking up to him. "What plot are you concocting now, Tethras?"

Varric grinned. "No plot yet, Stabby McStabbington."

Cassandra blinked. "What?"

Varric scratched the end of his nose with the end of his quill, transferring a smear of ink. "Can't decide on your nickname. Anyway, like I said. No plot yet. Just some ideas."

Cassandra crossed her arms over her chest. "You can't possibly be trying to write a story about what we're doing here."

"End of the world not interesting enough for you?" Varric chuckled. "Nah, this has those big events... but stories... the best stories at any rate, are about the little things. About people..."

Cassandra followed his line of sight to the Inquisitor who had apparently finished business and was now attempting to arm wrestle Bull. It wasn't going well.

"How does she do it?" Varric said, watching as the Inquisitor laughed along with Bull when he effortlessly pinned her hand against the table.

"Do what?"

"Just watch, Seeker."

So she did. She saw the Inquisitor slap Bull across the shoulder, still laughing, then transition seamlessly from chuckling to wary concern as Cole drifted out of the shadows, approaching her with a quiet question in his watery, unfocused eyes. As soon as Cole slunk away, Sera sauntered in, the scowl on her face proclaiming to anyone that she was in a mood to fight about something. But a few minutes chat with the Inquisitor and the elven archer seemed to go away satisfied and calm.

"That's the interesting part of this story," Varric said softly as they watched the Inquisitor and Cullen lean their heads together over a piece of paper. "And I plan to be here when she charms the demons themselves back into the Veil."

Cassandra raised an eyebrow. "She does more demon slaying rather than charming from what I've seen so far."

Varric cast her a look of long-suffering. "Poetry, my dear Stabby, is something you need to work on."


	7. Prompt: I'm not lost

**Prompt: I'm not lost, I just don't know where I am.**

* * *

Laughter rang through Skyhold as the various members of the Inquisition examined their cards and eyed each other across the table.

"I once spent two months in the robes of a Chantry lay brother," Iron Bull said.

"Bullshit!" Sera crowed.

"You know," the large qunari said in a conversational tone, "I'm not entirely sure I approve of the name of this game."

"You're right," Dorian smirked. "Let's call it Bullcrap instead."

Laughter erupted around the table, even from Vivienne who normally liked to hold herself above their little jokes.

"Don't dodge the call, Bull," Elanor Trevelyan said, grinning as she took a gulp of her ale. "Truth or bullshit?"

The mercenary let out a chuckle. "Truth! It really happened. Let me tell you, the looks I used to get from the templars."

Sera groaned and everyone helped pushed the mound of cards toward her. "I'm never going to get through these!"

Varric cleared his throat from the far end of the table. "I would once more like to protest my exclusion from the game."

"Noted," Elanor said with a grin, "but until you become a worse liar, Varric, tough cookies."

He was still grumbling when she turned back to the game. There were more cards in the middle and Solas was glancing through his hand. He set them face down on the table.

"I spent one month in a Circle completely unnoticed by the templars," he said in his quiet, thoughtful voice.

For a moment, no one spoke.

"Bullshit!" Elanor said, narrowing her eyes at him. "You told me you weren't Circle trained."

Solas gave her a slow smile. "That is true, but so was what I said. I did indeed reside in a Circle. I pretended to be a servant and so was beneath the templar's notice."

Elanor laughed. "You sly rabbit! You're better at this than I thought."

Silence fell across the table. Elanor blanched, glancing at her mug of ale. Cullen was staring at her like he'd never seen her before. Vivienne looked faintly embarrassed.

"Solas—" She stuttered.

"I'm out," Sera said in a cold voice, dropping her cards and shoving away from the table. "Let's go, Solas. Leave the _shems_ to their stupid game."

Solas also stood slowly, looking back at Elanor with an unreadable expression on his face. Then he too turned and left.

She tried to stand, but Bull put a giant hand on her shoulder so she couldn't move. "I think you'd get in arrow in the head if you tried to follow them right now," he said in a rumbling voice. "That was a stupid thing to say."

Elanor pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes, feeling hot and sick with shame. "Maker, I can't believe I said that... I'm never drinking again."

"Too much ale can loosen the tongue," Dorian said in a somber voice, "but it will not create words that aren't already in the back of your mind."

"I don't entirely see why everyone is so upset," Vivienne said into the awkward pause. "It wasn't as if she said 'knife-ear'."

"Hold your tongue if you have nothing pleasant to say, Enchanter," Cullen snapped in a rare display of anger. He stood, not meeting Elanor's eyes. "I'm going to get some fresh air."

"I think I'll join him," Varric said, looking uncomfortable.

Elanor wrenched herself free of Bull's grasp and fled the room, not caring if Sera shot her. She had to apologize. Wandering throughout the Skyhold, she didn't see Solas in any of the usual places.

Finally, in desperation, she exited the massive keep, wondering if he would have followed Sera outside to where the practice dummies were set up. She spotted him almost immediately, sitting under the tree in one of his meditative poses.

"Solas," she said, hurrying up, her words fumbling in her haste to get them out. "I'm so, so sorry. I don't know—I shouldn't have..." She paused, took a deep breath and dropped to her knees to look him in the eye. "It was very wrong of me to use that word, and I very sincerely apologize." Elanor bit her lip. "I'll understand if you want to leave, but if there's any way I can... make up for..." She winced. "Sorry. I know there's nothing I can do..."

To her surprise, Solas smiled. "The fact that you apologized is far more than most humans would have done."

Elanor flushed and miserably brought her knees up to her chin. "Every time I congratulate myself for pulling together a team of the most diverse individuals, I go and utterly prove myself unworthy of my position." She closed her eyes. "The worst part is, I can never take that back. You'll always remember that I called you that word."

"Yes," Solas agreed. She flinched. "But," he continued, "I will also remember how you came after me to apologize and make it right. And, that, my lady, is how society changes. One person at a time who admits to a wrong and does her best to be better the next time."

Elanor nodded, still feeling ashamed, but a little bit better that Solas didn't seem to hate her. He'd been the only one of her magic-wielding companions who seemed to understand instinctively how the mark on her hand worked. She needed him... and he was becoming something of a friend and teacher, like her old swordmaster from back home.

"I should find Sera and apologize to her too," Elanor said, standing and dusting off her leggings.

"Hmm, perhaps you should let me pass on your apologies first," Solas said with a wry smile, also rising to his feet. "She's not inclined to speak to any humans for the rest of the day."

"Solas," she said as he started to walk away. He paused to look back at her. "I really am sorry."

He inclined his head. "I know," he said with a sad smile. "So am I."


	8. Prompt: Hold that thought

**Prompt: Hold that thought**

A/N: Two prompts that include alcohol. I'm beginning to think my Elanor has a problem.

* * *

Cullen looked up from the war map as the day's team—Elanor (Miss Trevelyan, he corrected himself sternly), Iron Bull, Sera, and Varric—came tumbling into the war room smelling strongly of soot and sulfur. None of them seem to be in danger of bleeding out so he relaxed a bit and straightened from where he was crouched over the map.

"Was I right?" he queried. "Was it a Venatori stronghold?"

"It was a bleeding dragon!" Sera said in a shrill voice.

"We never got there," Elanor said as they walked closer, bringing with them the scent of burnt hair and leather. This close, Cullen could see now that Varric seemed to be missing an eyebrow and most of Bull's leather chestplate was crumbling off in large carbon chunks as they stood there. "We scared up a dragon on our way and thought it prudent to turn back since..." she pulled one of her daggers from her back and Cullen gasped. The sword had melted all the way to the hilt. He had the strong urge to check Elanor for injuries, but held himself back. If she was injured it wasn't serious, otherwise she'd have that pinched look about her face that he'd come to know and fear.

"We sent that bastard back to the Maker!" Sera crowed, getting a high five from Bull and almost falling over from the impact.

"And we're all going to get drinks in honor of not getting burnt to a crisp or eaten," Varric added with a grin.

"Won't you come too, Cullen?" Elanor asked, turning wide eyes on him.

He hesitated. "I can't," he said after a moment. "I've far too much work to do."

"Drinking with a templar's no fun anyway," Sera said with a knowing smirk at Varric that Cullen found annoying. "They tend to get very maudlin."

"What would you know about drinking with a templar?" Varric asked curiously.

Sera shook her head. "Nope! You don't get that one until after at least two pints."

"Two? You're little more than a half-pint yourself."

"Speak for yourself! I bet I could out drink you."

"You don't want to cross cups with a dwarf, Half Pint."

"That sounds like a challenge."

"A drinking contest?" Bull interjected, with a grin. "Count me in."

"Ooh, a drinking contest?" Elanor said eagerly. "I've never done one of those! Father never let me drink more than a little watered wine with dinner."

Cullen saw the devious looks pass among Sera, Varric, and Bull, though Elanor seemed to be oblivious to it.

"On second thought," he said, putting down his papers. "Maybe I will join you."

#

Predictably, Bull won the contest. Sera was muttering obscenities as she leaned over the table, looking green about the mouth as Bull chugged the last of his tankard and belched loudly. The large qunari didn't even seem tipsy. Cullen, who'd sat nearby nursing a single ale watched as Varric laughed and leered at Elanor who sat, swaying in her chair.

"What do you say, O Mighty Inquisitor? One more?"

"I think she's had enough," Cullen said as Elanor's head slumped to the table.

Varric squinted. "Yeah... guess you're right. I should put her to bed." He hiccuped and fell onto the floor as he tried to get out of his chair.

Cullen sighed, set his half-empty tankard on the bar, and came over to where Elanor sat.

"Miss Trevelyan?"

Her head shot up and she groaned. "Y-yes?"

"Would you like to go back to your room?"

She burped, and then nodded. "I shall ride my mighty war nug!" She announced, getting to her feet and wobbling. "But first I need to find my legs. Where did I leave them?"

"This way, Miss Trevelyan." He caught her elbow as she tried to sink onto the floor and helped her exit the room with a little more dignity than Varric who was still laying on the floor, and Sera, who had started to snore. Bull winked at Cullen as he left, hefting yet another tankard in a toast.

#

"Cullen?"

"Yes, Miss Trevelyan?" They passed the kitchens. Almost there.

"Did you know I was supposed to be a sister in the Chantry?" Elanor said. She had been speaking steadily ever since they left the bar, though mostly it had been about battles and nonsense. Now, however, he sensed a little sobriety to her words.

"Oh?"

"Yep," she nodded vigorously, fell against his side and winced. He steadied her and they kept walking. "'s tradition in the Trevelyan family. We always have someone in the Chantry. My mother was a templar before she got injured and was forced to retire. That's how she met Da. He was a lay brother in the Chantry, helping th' healers. I was going to take vows, but then the war started."

"Would you have liked the Chantry life?" He wondered. Life as a templar had been... confusing for him at times. He didn't regret his decision to leave, not with the state of the world being what it was, but he missed the feeling of belonging to something larger than himself. Perhaps that's why he'd been drawn to Elanor in the first place. She had a pull to her that few people he had ever known possessed.

"I like singing the Chant," Elanor was saying, her face screwed up with concentration as she spoke. "It's very pretty. And I have a good voice. Want to hear?" Without warning she began to sing in a rich, warm voice that took him by surprise. Then she spoiled the effect by burping again. "I don't sing for just anyone. Singing's for the Maker... or for people. Some people. Special people."

"I wanted to be a sister," she said a pause. "But I don't know if I would have been good at it. Mother wanted me to join the Chantry so I said I would." She stumbled again and giggled. "She probably hates that I'm part of the Inquisition." Her face fell.

"Ah, here we are," Cullen said, pausing at a door with relief. Drunkenly emotional Elanor was not someone he was prepared to deal with.

"Cullen."

He had one hand on the doorknob to her room and one hand around her waist, holding her more or less upright. When he looked down at her, she seemed to be trying to focus on his face.

"I like you," she blurted out. "I think you're cute and I told Josie that your butt is nice, though I told her I would never tell you, and you're a nice person and I want to kiss your face right now, okay?"

Cullen let go of the doorknob and put his hands on her shoulders, to steady her or himself he wasn't certain. "You want to kiss me?"

"Very much," she said nodding, almost falling over with the motion. "It would be my first kiss and I don't want to die in this stupid saving-the-world thing without at least one kiss and I want it to be you."

"Elanor," he tried out her name on his tongue and she grinned at him and tried to lunge forward, lips pursed like a child's. He kept her at arm's length.

"Are you sure?" he asked, searching her face. "Are you certain this isn't just ale talking?"

"Noooo, I've wanted to do it for a long time, but Josie said I would need some courage of the liquid variety and I think I understand what she means." She frowned. "Why is your face all swirly?"

"Then, Elanor, I will kiss you," he said, feeling his heart pound in his chest.

"Yay!" She lurched forward again, but he held her steady.

"But not tonight," he said, allowing one of his fingers to gently touch her cheek. "When I give you a kiss, I want you to remember it, so that when we are apart, it will be something you can think of, something that is yours and mine."

Elanor looked at him for a moment. "That... was very gentlem-gent- that was a nice thing to say." Then she leaned over and threw up on his boots.

#

Elanor woke up, certain that a demon had crawled inside her mouth and died.

"Oh," she groaned, throwing an arm over her eyes to block out the spears of light coming through her window. That was the last time she went out drinking with the team. She frowned. What had happened last night? She uncovered her arm slowly, looking around. How did she get back in her room?

Bits and pieces of the night before came back to her. She remembered someone tall with his hands on her shoulders... she remembered... Oh Maker. She'd flung herself at him like a common hussy... She crawled out of bed, waiting for a moment until the floor stopped heaving, and threw on some clothes. She had to find out.. she had to know...

She found him in the kitchens, getting ready to eat breakfast. Gulping, Elanor sat down across from him.

"Bull, did I try to kiss you last night?"


	9. The Valo-kas

Inspired to write a bit more for Thorn, my qunari mage. Her other stories can be found in the chapters labeled "Blue Skies," "I'm just an old woman," and "I fear no man." Also, David Gaider has explained that "qunari" can mean both the religion and the race, so I do refer to her occasionally as qunari even though she is technically Andrastian.

* * *

"Bryon?"

"Hmm?" The elven mage looked up at his apprentice. At sixteen, the young qunari lass was taller than him already — as tall as most humans in fact — and she wasn't finished growing. It had been a strain on his limited coin to feed her ravenous appetite.

"What happens next?"

Bryon frowned at his map. They had paused in their journey in a shaded clearing just off the road so Bryon could check his directions "Well I have some friends in Ostwick if we can manage to evade the Templars—"

"I thought you weren't sure it was Templars following us?" Thorn shook out her white hair and began to braid it, a strip of leather to tie the end between her lips.

"Well my experience with Templars so far has indicated that they most often rely on force and brute strength. The people that followed us in Kirkwall…" Bryon frowned, then shook his head. "Even the Templars have to adapt new methods from time to time."

"Well," Thorn said, still braiding, "that wasn't what I meant to ask anyway. When my apprenticeship is done can I go live with my mother?"

Bryon smoothed his hand over the map in a distracted way. "If you wish to," he said carefully. "But it would be a hard life, Thorn. Choosing a life as an apostate mage hiding in plain sight rarely works well because... well, we are what we are. No longer would you be able to start fires with a mere flick of your fingers. Everything you have been trained to do, everything you are, you would have to set aside. It is a life of constantly examining your actions and reactions; of looking over your shoulder."

"That's not much different than now." Thorn frowned, jerking hard on her hair. "I could give up magic..."

"If you mother ever got hurt, you couldn't heal her," he added quietly. Thorn looked away. He pressed on. "If you reveal your magic in either a fearful situation or in a moment of careless distraction, it's over. You go with the Templars to the Circle or you'll be on the run again."

Thorn scowled as she tied off her braid and tossed it over her shoulder. "Then what's left for me? Am I going to wander the Free Marches the rest of my life, constantly hiding from Templars and Ben-Hassrath?"

"Not if I can help it," he said in a lighter voice. He pointed on the map. "The friend I mentioned is in a mercenary group known as Valo-kas. They're based in Ostwick and they're always looking for talented recruits."

"Mercenaries?" She repeated, eyes wide. "But—"

"But what, Thorn?" he said, a little harder than he intended. "Your options for the future—like it or not—are extremely limited and it's time you accept that fact. We are what we are and we cannot change it." He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Look," he said in a more reasonable tone, "a mercenary group will allow you more freedom than you've known even as a wandering apostate. Valo-kas is well-respected, as far as merc groups go, and has enough clout to provide bribes to Templars willing to look the other way. I happen to know Valo-kas always on the lookout for apostates because every time I talk to my friend, she tries to hire me." He paused, eyeing her. "Also, their leader is Tal-Vashoth. He will know best how to keep you safe from the Ben-Hassrath. There are a few qunari—other Vashoth—among his band. You'll be able to blend in better there."

Thorn's head whirled to the side. "Someone's coming," she said in a low voice, her amber eyes narrowed at the forest path.

Bryon gripped his staff, disguised as a simple walking stick. From the bend emerged two elves in peasant clothes. They eyed Bryon and Thorn with curiosity but didn't speak, other than a simple nod of greeting. Bryon didn't like the way that their eyes lingered a moment too long on Thorn and was glad they kept walking. Thorn didn't seem to notice, she was rummaging in her pack, eventually emerging with an apple.

"Shall we go, then?" she said, crunching her apple. "This is my last apple, so we'll need to buy some food when we get into the city."

Bryon winced for his coin purse. "Yes, let's go."

#

Once inside Ostwick, Bryon wasted no time but walked to the tavern that members of the Valo-kas frequented. As they stood in the entrance, glancing around, he felt Thorn tense beside him.

"There are qunari here," she hissed.

Bryon spied the hulking horned figures at a far table and nodded. "See that symbol on their armor? That's Valo-kas. They're Tal-Vashoth." His apprentice nodded, seeming to relax a little, and they wound their way through the tables to the bar to order a meal.

After Bryon had paid the man for the food, he put one more coin on the bar, holding a finger to it. "I'm looking for Cara, an elf in Valo-kas. Know where I can find her?"

The bartender pointed at a small table in the corner. "That's her in the hood."

"My thanks." Bryon lifted his hand off the coin and the bartender pocketed it.

Thorn waited by the bar for their food as Bryon made his way over to the table, ignoring a few mutters of "watch it, knife ear" when he edged a bit too close to another table. Finally, he arrived, sitting down in the seat opposite the lithe hooded figure.

The tip of a knife glittered at his throat before he'd completely settled. He grinned. "Nice to see you too, Cara."

The large eyes under the hood blinked in surprise and the knife lowered. "Bryon! What are you doing here?"

Bryon glanced at the bar where Thorn was still waiting and felt a sad little twinge in his chest. "I've got a new recruit for you."

#

The elven archer frowned at Bryon. She'd taken off her hood as they spoke, revealing dark hair, warm copper skin, and a faint swirling tattoo on her forehead. "The Valo-kas isn't a charity. If your girl can't prove herself, she's out. I have enough pull with the boss to get her a fair audition, but nothing more than that."

Bryon nodded. "I understand, Cara, and I know she can exceed expectations."

"Well," Cara said, softening into a smile. "If she's anything like you, than I know she'll be great."

"Thanks, Cara. I owe you a drink for this."

"How about now? I'm not on duty until tonight." She said, eyes searching his face, an inviting smile on her lips.

Bryon blinked in surprise but grinned as he replied. "Sure."

"What about the kid?" Cara glanced over at Thorn who was finally getting their plates and making their way toward their table.

"I'll send her to the nearest smithy after we're done eating," Bryon said with a smile. "She knows enough of the craft to make friends with any smith we've ever met. She'll talk shop for hours if I let her."

#

The blacksmith Bryon had left her with was a grouch. He didn't seem to like the way Thorn lingered at his shop without buying anything and only grunted in reply when she tried to strike up a conversation. When she tried to show interest in his methods or offer to help at the bellows he grew even more surly.

So she wandered away, more than used to the stares and whispers of the townsfolk who saw her. Qunari weren't exactly common and more often than not, they tended to be mercenaries. Soon, she would be too. Thorn frowned. It wasn't that she objected to the plan or Bryon's reasoning: but it wasn't fair. She should be able to go home to her mother without anyone making a fuss. And if the Templars decided to be nosy, well they could just butt out.

"Excuse me," said a voice at her elbow.

Thorn looked down to see two elves smiling at her. She recognized them. They were the ones that had crossed their path before they reached the city.

"Sorry to bother you, messere," said the woman with a little dip of her head. "But we've just arrived in the city and we're a bit lost. New cities can be dangerous for elves and we couldn't help but notice you seem friendly with the one you're traveling with..."

"My dad," Thorn said, the lie easily coming to her lips. She and Bryon had come up with a cover story a long time ago to forestall awkward questions about an elf and a qunari traveling together, and she no longer fumbled with the answers like she did as a child. "He adopted me when I was a kid after I was found abandoned in the alienage. What did you need?"

"Well we're trying to find the house of our cousin and he said it was down this street, didn't he dear?" The elves started chattering about the directions, arguing gently in the way some married couples did. Thorn mostly tuned them out as she followed, wondering how soon Bryon would get done with his date and they could get this Valo-kas thing over with. Then she blinked, frowning. This alley was a dead end.

"This can't be the right street," she said, stopping. "This is just an alley—" Something hard hit her then and the world went black.

#

She awoke in darkness and throbbing pain on the back of her skull between her horns. There was something stuffed into her mouth and her tongue felt dry and swollen. There was also something cold and heavy around her neck. Groaning, she tried to reach up to get it off and realized that her hands and feet were bound behind her. Panic began to race through her veins and she struggled to free her hands. If she could free her hands she could burn her ropes off... She tried to summon her magic, reaching for that itchy feeling always in the back of her mind...

Nothing happened.

Breathing heavily through her nose, Thorn tried to think. What had happened? Who had done this to her? And, most importantly, _why wasn't her magic working?_

"... wait for Arvaarad..."

Thorn froze at the voice and craned her neck so that she could see the dim outline of some steps leading up to a door. So she was in a cellar of some kind? Did that mean she was still in the city?

The flaps of the door opened and the light from a lantern held aloft pierced her eyes, but she blinked away the water and didn't look away. She had to know who her captors were... The elven couple who had stopped to ask her for directions peered at her, looking startled and wary when they saw she was awake.

"You! Why did you do this?" Thorn said, or tried to say through the gag. It came out as nothing more than a garbled, unintelligible mess.

The elf woman flinched and her husband brandished the lantern like a shield. "Hold your tongue, saarebas!"

Thorn froze. No... it couldn't be...

The elf woman crossed her thin arms over her chest. "I say we kill her now. When Arvaarad comes, that's all that's going to happen anyway."

Her husband shot her an admonishing glance. "Qunari waste nothing. Arvaarad will determine if she can be educated. The elf, of course, will have to be destroyed because he has possibly been corrupted, but her we have yet to determine. See? She hasn't yet turned into an abomination. She may yet be saved."

_Viddathari. _Worse, they were probably Ben-Hassrath. Thorn wanted to scream, to fly away, to blast them with a giant fireball.

"The only reason she hasn't turned into an abomination is because of the restraining collar," the woman snapped. "Without it, she'd be summoning her demons right now."

The elf man shot Thorn a wary look then herded his wife up the stairs and shut the door where she could hear their dim voices continuing to argue. So, this heavy thing around her neck impeded her magic, did it? Fear began to creep across Thorn like a thousand little needles. There were many things to be afraid of in the world, but Bryon had always taught her not to be scared; cautious, yes, but fear stopped the mind from thinking. Fear kept you trapped.

But without her magic, what could she do?

She thrashed around a little more, growing more frustrated by the minute. _Good, _she could almost hear Bryon say, _get frustrated; get mad. Anger keeps the fear away._ She concentrated on it: how dare these slaves to the Qun truss her up like a pig to market! She was a mage and she bowed to nothing but the dictates of her conscience. And if these Ben-Hassrath thugs underestimated her because she was tied up and collared? Well she'd show them.

Thorn wriggled around on the dirt floor until her back was to one of the walls. Slowly, using her bound hands when she could, she propped herself up so that she was sitting up. Now the hard part. Gasping with pain, Thorn worked her bound hands under her rear end, wiggling and scooting until she fell over again, but it was done. Her hands were now behind her legs. She wasn't sure if this would have been possible a few months ago, but she'd had a growth spurt recently and her arms were longer than they should be. But the elves had tied her tightly. She could feel the ropes cutting into her skin and blood from her wrists stained her clothes as she worked them down her legs and finally over her feet. Thorn gratefully tugged her gag free, working up some saliva to moisten her dry mouth then looked around for something to saw through her ropes. The cellar was too dark to see clearly. There were no windows and the only entrance seemed to be the door above her head. Everything else seemed to be bare, cool stone.

The two voices had stopped talking though, which meant whatever Thorn did to get free, it had to be quiet until she could get the collar off and blast this horrible place—no, wait, she couldn't do that either. Thorn took a deep breath. Anger was good and useful but she couldn't let it control her. Bryon had taught her this over and over: she had to master herself to truly master her magic. Anger would serve its purpose to keep her from descending into panic, but then she wouldn't let it control her. She would make a quick escape as quietly as possible otherwise she would just invite more danger upon herself, templars or more Ben-Hassrath agents.

And Bryon. She had to get out to warn him that the qunari were going to— she swallowed that thought. _Focus_, she thought and began to gnaw at the ropes binding her wrists. There was one useful thing about the collar, she thought absently as she chewed on the rope, occasionally turning her head to spit fibers out of her mouth. With the collar somehow dampening her connection to the Fade, she couldn't sense the oily power that came from her own blood. Bryon had warned her about blood magic last year, and then cut her hand on purpose to show her what it felt like and how she had to resist. No one quite understood it, he'd said, but blood called to the demons somehow. Mages that succumbed to the temptation of using blood magic could use their own blood to fuel their spells, but the cost was terrible and the more susceptible it made you to possession. Bryon had purposefully cut her so that she would know what would happen if she was ever accidentally injured. Panicked apostates turned to blood magic out of terror, he'd said. "You can acknowledge the power you feel," he'd said as she'd watched blood drip down her palm. "You can acknowledge that you're tempted by it. But then you _must_ put it aside."

Thorn tasted her own blood in her mouth as the rough rope fibers cut her lips and gums, but she kept working at it, spitting bloody wads of the stuff to the side. Almost there...

She heard steps above and hissed in frustration. She was so close. Frantically, Thorn ripped at the shreds of rope, feeling her teeth ache from the pressure, and then finally, she could feel the loop loosening. Almost sobbing at the release, she flexed her wrists and the rest of the rope fell free.

The door to the cellar swung open and she looked up to meet Bryon's shocked eyes.

"Bryon!" she choked out in relief. "It's the qunari, they've—"

"I know," he said, hurrying down the steps. "One of the Valo-kas saw them take you. What have you been doing?" he said after a moment. 'You're... covered in blood."

"I chewed the rope off," she explained as he set to work on the ropes at her feet. "Don't bother with those. This collar; it's some sort of qunari device. I can't use magic with it on." She scrabbled at it with her fingers but they were still swollen from being tied up and fumbled against the cool metal collar.

"Here, let me." Bryon fiddled with something behind her neck, she heard the click of a latch, and suddenly the weight fell free and power flooded back into her body. She could feel the buzzing of temptation that came with spilled blood, but ignored it as Bryon cast a quick healing spell over her minor wounds. She could feel her shredded skin knitting up, her head stopped aching, and her fingers regained their normal flexibility.

She used a small flame to burn through the ropes binding her feet, and Bryon helped her stand. On impulse, she threw her arms around his smaller frame. She felt his hands coming around her shoulders, comforting her like he had when she was a child and cried from missing her mother.

"I was so scared," she admitted in a hoarse voice. "I thought... when I couldn't use my magic..." She shivered.

"I'm proud of you," he said, pulling back and look her in the eyes. "One of the worst situations a mage could encounter and you kept your head, didn't panic—"

"The saarebas is escaping!" a shrill voice above them and then a huge hulking shadow filled the cellar doorway. Arvaarad had arrived.

#

The qunari was tall and muscular, like most males of her kind, but he also was tattooed or painted with bright red angles and his pale eyes seemed to zero in on her. They narrowed.

"She has been allowed to use blood magic?" he growled, not turning his back on the two mages.

Thorn swiped at her mouth, realizing that though her wounds had healed, there was still blood on her face. She probably looked like some sort of savage animal.

"Thorn, run!" Bryon yelled, bringing his staff to bear, but Arvaarad moved surprisingly fast for someone of his size. He leaped forward, grabbing Bryon's staff, hissing with pain where magic found contact with his skin, and yanked it out of the elf's grasp. Then, without missing a beat he swung a short sword out of a scabbard at his side and rammed it into the small elf in front of him.

Thorn screamed as Bryon fell to the floor, sliding off the blade, but Arvaarad didn't even pause. He stepped over Bryon as if he was an inconvenient piece of furniture that happened to be in the way and loomed over Thorn.

"Saarebas," he rumbled. "Will you submit to the Qun?"

Thorn stared at him, mind roaring with panic and rage. She could do it... she could slice open her newly healed skin and take this bastard down with the power he so feared...

"Thorn..."

Her eyes found Bryon. Blood bubbled at his lips and his eyes were glassy with pain, but somehow he managed to smile. "Thorn," he whispered again. "_Run_."

She knew even before she sensed the power—clean, raw power, not the filth she had been tempted to use—what he was going to do. Thorn whipped out a finger, calling down lightning. Arvaarad, jumped back in shock, and she raced past him. The floor was already bucking beneath her feet, and she took the stairs two at a time, blindly rushing past the startled elves, through a dark house and finally stumbling outside as the very foundations caved in from the force of Bryon's last spell. The walls of the house trembled and shook, stone cracking, wood splintering. Dust clouded the street and she kept running, pausing only once to catch her breath and look back. Townspeople paused in the street to look at the house that had collapsed in on itself.

"Bryon," she whispered, and leaned over as tears began falling down her cheeks.

"Hey kid."

Thorn whirled, fingers cocked to blast with lightning again, but it was only Cara, the Valo-kas archer. The slender elf woman backed up a step, eyes wary. "Bryon. Where is he? He said that he was going to rescue you from the qunari."

Thorn wiped at her face, smearing dirt, blood, and tears and didn't respond. Cara swore under her breath.

"Well," she said after a moment, "come on then. Let's introduce you to the boss."

"What?" Thorn looked up, surprise temporarily edging out her grief.

Cara nodded toward the house. "That's one hell of a resumé, kid."

Thorn swallowed, her throat tight. "I didn't do that. Bryon did—"

Cara shook her head. "Not anymore. You did it to save yourself from the qunari after they killed Bryon. It'll impress the boss that you took down some qunari agents. Easiest way."

"But—" Thorn looked back at the house.

"But what, kid? You got someplace important to be?" the archer's voice sharpened.

Thorn thought of her mother; thought of Arvaarad; thought of the viddathari who had tracked them across the Free Marches. Lastly, she thought of Bryon, who had promised she'd be safe with the Valo-kas.

"No," she said in a quiet voice. "I don't have anyone."

Cara's mouth lifted in a sympathetic smile. "Well, you got us now. Come on. Let's get out of here."

-end-


	10. The Valo-kas part 2

Another qunari mage story. Takes place almost immediately after the previous story.

* * *

Thorn sealed the letter to her mother and dropped it in the bag of Valo-kas post that was taken to the post office once a day. She'd only been with the mercenary group for a few days, but her mother would be worried when Thorn and Bryon didn't return for the upcoming holiday like they did every year, blending in with the increased number of people in the city. It had been painful, the letter. She'd informed her mother about the Ben-Hassrath and that she probably wouldn't be able to visit again for some time. Perhaps she'd earn her way up the ranks and maybe have enough clout to leave for a few days if she wanted. But that would take years.

Thorn tried not to think of her mother and how she would feel upon receiving the letter, and wandered into the mess hall of the warren of buildings the Valo-kas called home. The noise of talk and laughter rang out as she rounded a corner of a corridor. She actually hadn't a chance to eat with everyone yet. Cara had to introduce her to the "boss," a hulking Tal-Vashoth with a thick accent and a missing horn, and when she'd admitted that had no staff (the Ben-Hassrath had taken and probably destroyed it), she'd immediately been sent on a couple-day's journey with a human woman to a meet a shifty-eyed contact that provided a staff. Thorn touched it now where it swung at her back, feeling awkward. It took awhile to get to know a staff, especially one that hadn't been made for you. Her usual shrinking spell that she'd had on her old staff didn't work very well on this one. So now it bobbed in a makeshift loop on her back, constantly knocking into her horns until she wanted to rip the thing off and break it against the stone walls.

Thorn paused at the threshold of the mess hall to get her bearings, a little surprised to see that the members of Valo-kas had segregated themselves. At a few tables sat the gray and bronze-skinned Tal-Vashoth. At another section, the humans and the dwarves (at separate tables, of course). And near the back, the elves. Only the table at the front where the boss—Valo-kas, as he called himself—and his top lieutenants of various races sat was there any semblance of intermingling. Thorn frowned, but shrugged it off and walked over to the food line to get a large plate and a chunk of bread. She declined the ale—Bryon had not approved of alcohol: a drunk mage was a dangerous mage—and opted instead for water, which she would have to purify with a spell she was sure, unless she wanted to get sick.

She took her food back toward the elf section and sat down at the table across from Cara. The chattering elves immediately fell silent.

Thorn looked up at the silence, glancing at Cara who did not meet her eyes, and smiled down the table. "Um, hello. I'm Thorn Adaar. I just got recruited."

"We know who you are, mage," said an elf with a broken nose. He frowned. "What are you doing here? Go eat with your own kind."

Thorn blinked. Her own kind? She glanced at the tables filled with qunari and back to the elves. "But... I like elves," she said, stuttering a little. She'd been half-raised by one and even before that, she'd played with elven children in the alienage near her mother's shop. She had more in common with them, she felt, than she did with the Tal-Vashoth.

Some of the elves tittered at her statement. The one who'd spoken before sneered. "Oh? You like elves, huh? So we should just sit here like good little rabbits and wait on your permission to eat?"

Thorn frowned. "I don't use that word," she said, glaring. "I just meant that—"

"Well we don't like you, ox-girl. Find your own place to eat."

Thorn felt her cheeks darken with a blush and looked again at Cara who'd been so nice to her before, and got only an apologetic glance and a small shrug.

Silently, Thorn left the elf table and stood for a moment looking at the others. Dwarves, humans, Tal-Vahsoth. She didn't belong to any of them.

Not wanting to stand longer than necessary—she could feel curious eyes falling on her—she selected a small table near the door by herself, ate quickly, and hurried back to the practice yard where she could hurl some fireballs at practice dummies.

#

About two weeks later, Thorn was in the courtyard practicing her staffwork. The staff was responsive to her commands now, as if it had learned a grudging respect for her abilities, and she could shrink it to the size of a pencil if she needed to. But she had learned already that wariness for her mage abilities was, to some extent, an acceptable alternative to respect. Friendship was probably too much to hope for. So she kept her staff in view while at the Valo-kas compound. No reason to hide it when everyone already knew what she was.

"Adaar!"

Thorn turned to see one of mercs who was on guard duty wave at her from the entrance to the court yard.

"You have a visitor," he called.

Perplexed, Thorn slung her staff over her shoulder and trotted up to meet him. The guardsman gestured toward the front gate. "She's waiting just outside the front." He frowned. "Don't let her in, okay? No civilians; Boss's rules."

Thorn walked to the front doors and opened them. A moment later her mother's arms—lean and hard with muscle from years at the forge—came around her, holding her tight.

"Mother!"

After a moment, Thorn pulled back, unable to stop smiling. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, you said that you wouldn't be able to leave Ostwick for awhile, so I thought I would come see you instead," Sky Adaar said, looking over her daughter with an appraising glance. "I'm so sorry about Bryon," she said in a quieter voice. "He was a good man."

Thorn swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. "Yeah, he was."

Sky looked at her for a long moment. "Something else seems to be bothering you. What's going on?"

Shame flooded her cheeks and she looked down at her feet. "I don't belong here, Mother. I want to go home." Her voice broke.

"Where's the nearest smithy?"

Thorn looked up, confused. "What?"

Sky gestured back toward the city. "A blacksmith. Where is it?"

"Just a couple of blocks that way... but why?"

"I handle problems better if I can hit something. Come on."

#

The local blacksmith could only stare as two qunari women shoved themselves into his forge and asked—demanded, really—temporary use of his forge. He huffed and puffed a great deal, but really, what else could you do when two golden-eyed giants stared you down?

He took an early lunch break.

_Clang!_

Sky snorted as Thorn's blow hit the molten steel at an odd angle and sprayed sparks. "Your technique is off. What have you been doing since I saw you?"

Thorn hit the steel again and this time her aim was true. "Learning to use magic." _Clang!_ "Fighting off agents of the Ariqun." _Clang!_ "Finding out that I don't belong anywhere in this stupid company. Maybe the whole world!" _Clang! Clang!_

There was a pause while Sky paused to get another tool from the workbench.

"Do you remember what Adaar means?"

"A ship-mounted cannon," Thorn replied, wondering what a lesson in qunlat could have to do with anything as she wiped sweat off her brow.

"Qunari do not have surnames. I choose 'Adaar' to be mine when I escaped Par Vollen," her mother said. "Do you know why?"

Thorn shook her head. Her mother had never spoken of her escape before except for a few terse words. And with Thorn constantly being on the road, she'd never really had the chance to ask about it before.

"The adaar is the weapon that goes straight into the hardest part of the battle. The adaar clears a path; it makes a way where nothing else can." Sky's hands gripped her daughter's shoulders. "That's what I did when I came here to live among the bas; when I became one of them. And that's what you must do too. Make a path. Find a way where no one else can. That's who you are, Thorn. That's what you will be."

#

Thorn took her plate of food from the cook in the mess hall and inserted herself at the elf table across from Cara again.

Silence descended as Thorn began to eat. Good food today: roast nug with thick gravy over potatoes. The elves looked at each other. Some shrugged and continued their conversations. Others glared at Thorn, and others looked a little uneasy. She kept eating.

"So," she said to the elf beside her, "heard about the guard duty for that noble. Was it true his carriage had gold inlay?"

"Y-yes," stammered the elf, looking startled. "It was... very shiny."

"Gold is such a useless metal, if you think about it," Thorn said thoughtfully. "I mean, it pays for stuff, but it's so soft you really can't use it for much else." She glanced at Cara, happy to see a small smile and a nod of approval.

"Hey," said Broken-Nosed elf with a scowl. "I thought I told you I didn't like qunari."

"That's too bad," said a rumbling voice behind him, "considering that one pays you."

"Boss!" the elf yelped. "I didn't mean—that is—"

Valo-kas waved a massive hand in dismissal. "I don't care if you like me, Barty, as long as you do your job." He focused on Thorn. "Adaar."

"Yes, sir?"

"Got a job for a mage that's just come in. See me after the meal." The Tal-Vashoth nodded and stomped away.

Thorn swallowed hard, fingers worrying the end of her braid in agitation. "Maker's breath," she muttered. "That was fast."

The elf beside her grinned. "First job, rookie?"

Thorn nodded. Cara leaned in. "Let's give you some tips. First, pay attention to the squad leader..."

The other elves began to chime in with their advice as Thorn sat and ate and soaked in the clamor of voices.


	11. Prompt: Gullible

**Prompt: Gullible**

This story takes place as if Thorn Adaar (as the Inquisitor) was recounting the previous story about her joining Valo-kas. A sort of epilogue maybe?

* * *

"So that's how I joined Valo-kas," Thorn said sipping at the spiced ale with a bit of sadness. She hadn't thought of Bryon in awhile. Her master would not have approved of her drinking, but at least she never drank more than she could handle. This was still her first mug.

Varric leaned back in his chair. "So whatever happened to that Barty character? Please tell me you 'accidentally' threw a fireball at him."

Thorn snorted into her ale, mopping off her face as she laughed. "Well, I made out with him a few times."

"What?!" Varric stared at her, then tossed his head back in a laugh. "You're shitting me!"

"Promise," Thorn said, raising her hand.

Varric wrinkled his nose. "Here I was picturing him as some wart-faced, gray-haired elf shaking his dagger at the kids getting on his lawn."

Thorn laughed. "Barty was only a few years older than I was—maybe twenty?—but he'd been in the group longer so that gave him something of an edge in the social politics. But he got used to me and I to him. And then... well I was a teenager on my own for the first time in my life with a whole lot of freedom." She got a dreamy edge to her voice. "Haven't you ever sparred with someone, Varric? The blood roaring through your veins, the dodging and moving, the times your bodies sway in opposition to each other? It's a pretty powerful emotion to experience with someone."

He cleared his throat. "I... maybe have experienced what you've referred to." He took a gulp from his mug. "So whatever happened to him? Did you break him?" His eyes twinkled.

Thorn laughed. "No. It never got past whatever we felt when sparring. He was kind of a jerk, even after he accepted me as part of the group. I gave him up after a couple months of that and then he got himself killed in a job gone bad a couple of years before the Conclave."

Varric shook his head. "I _knew_ a qunari mage would have good stories."

Thorn eyed him over the rim of her cup and smiled a toothy, predatory grin. "You know what's a good follow-up to storytelling, Varric?" She leaned in, tapping the edge of his nose. Varric's face grew wary.

"Uh, a long walk alone in fresh air to sober us up?"

Thorn shook her head, still smiling. "Sparring."

"Thorn," he said, laughing uncomfortably, "you know that if you decide to sweep me off my feet, I'll have no choice but to go along because a fall from your arms would probably kill me, but... I'm not—"

Thorn's predatory expression faltered and the room shook from her laughter.

Varric shook his head, chagrined. "I walked right into that, didn't I?"

Thorn wiped away a tear. "Out of all the people in Skyhold, Varric, you're the one I expected to go along with the joke. I never expected you to be so gullible."

Varric gave her a lopsided grin. "You might be surprised by the number of friends of mine who end up hitting on me for real, Thorny. There's only so much of this dwarf that can go around, and he's spoken for."

Thorn's gaze went to the ever-present Bianca at his back, even while they were relaxed and speaking within Skyhold, not an enemy in sight.

"Someday, Varric, you'll have to tell me her story," she said thoughtfully, tossing back the rest of her drink and standing.

Varric smirked. "That's what they all say."

Thorn bent over and dropped a kiss on top of his head. When he looked up at her, surprised, she smiled. "Don't keep everyone a story to be told, Varric. Become part of the story every once in awhile, okay?"

"I'll... uh, keep that in mind," he said, and she could see that she'd truly flustered him, even more so than when he'd thought she was flirting with him.

"Good night, Varric."

"Good night, Inquisitor."


	12. Prompt: Personal responsibility

**Prompt: Personal responsibility**

* * *

Inquisitor Trevelyan helped Commander Cullen limp to the cot. Her adviser's jaw clenched as he sat, trying to keep weight off his injured leg.

"I'm so, so sorry," she said as he lifted the leg to lay straight out in front of him. She gripped her elbows with her hands.

"It's not your fault," he grunted.

"It is," Elanor said, her cheeks crimson. "I should have known better than to walk straight into that path. It seems so obvious now that it was an ambush..." She squeezed her eyes shut. "I'll speak with Cassandra. She's the one who should be leading the Inquisition, not me. Cassandra has battle experience; leadership experience. She never would have made a call like I just did. And now you're hurt." She bit her lip and sat next to the cot, opening her pack.

He didn't speak for a moment, watching as she dug around, coming up with a small potion and a wad of bandages.

"While it is true that you lack experience, Miss Trevelyan," he said, wincing as she peeled bloody layers of cloth away from the wound, "Cassandra cannot lead the Inquisition. She is the right hand of the Divine, and the Inquisition must be separate from the Chantry—it must be neutral." He gave her a grim smile. "This little skirmish will hardly be the worst battle we face. You will learn with time, and advising you on military matters is what I am here for."

Elanor popped the cork of the bottle with her teeth and glanced at Cullen for permission before pouring a thin stream of the red liquid onto the gash on his leg.

Cullen gripped the edge of the cot as the wound hissed and bubbled. Sweat broke out across his upper lip.

"Drink the rest of this," Elanor said, handing the potion flask to him. "Madame de Fer said some of the healing from this potion will be internal."

He gulped it down, wondering idly how he had come so far from fearing the merest whisper of magic to blindly trusting the potions of one today, and an Orlesian mage at that. Immediately, the pain seemed to subside and he sighed in relief.

"What if everyone's wrong?" Elanor blurted, eyes wide. "I'm... I'm just a lay sister in the Chantry! I wasn't raised to... to be trained with the understanding that I'd have legions under my command. I'm a nobody! I... I sing songs to myself... I sometimes eat too many cookies! Two days before I left for the conclave I was having a race with some of the children... I cry over injured animals, and I sometimes make fun of the templars behind their backs to make the Chanters laugh!"

"But you also fight with a fierce tenacity that I wish more people possessed," he pointed out, trying not to smile at the panic in her voice. Her concerns were entirely valid, but the image she presented of herself was a charming one.

"You were hurt," she said, twisting her fingers in her lap. "I can't... I can't bear it if someone I... I know, someone I am responsible for got hurt."

"You are a skilled fighter," he continued, "and—"

"I'm only one woman! My skill in battle won't save the world!" she snapped and the mark on her hand flared green. She tucked the hand under her arm, hiding the glow. "I don't know if can do this," she said in a quieter voice.

"Someone has to, Miss Trevelyan," he said, gently. "The Chantry is under siege, the Grey Wardens unresponsive, and the qunari are at our doorstep. The world is in chaos. If we do not stand to fight against it, who will?"

Elanor sat at the side of the cot, her eyes distant but still wide with the enormity of her responsibility.

"I don't think that anyone is ready for these kinds of events," he continued after a moment. "I know I was not. The most you can do, I think, is to do what you can, to do what you think is right even when that's the hardest thing you've ever done. To _believe_ that there is right thing to do when everyone and everything around you is clamor and chaos."

"'Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter...'" she murmured.

"'Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just,'" he finished the quote. She looked up at him and for a moment there was... something in her eyes. Then just as quickly it vanished. She smiled, looking a bit tired.

"I'm going to make sure everyone else is okay. Do you need anything else, Commander?"

"No, thank you, Inquisitor. I'll remain here until this potion has finished its work." He watched her leave, a little reassured. When he'd first met her, he'd had his doubts, but seeing her fight, seeing her here, exposing her own weakness reassured him somewhat. She would not be another Meredith. He could do some good here. Cullen blew out a breath and resumed wrapping the bandage around his leg.


	13. Smitty

A/N: Me trying to get a headcanon down for a qunari mage's parents. Features the mother of my qunari mage Thorn from the drabble "Blue skies."

* * *

Smitty looked at the sword with some perplexity. It was perfectly adequate as far as weapons went. No notches or scratches on the blade. Good balance, a nice grip... but something about it bothered her. A footstep crunched outside and she raised her eyes from the confusing sword to see a man outside her shop. He was unpainted and dressed in an odd mixture of clothing... Smitty's eyes widened. Ben-Hassrath, just home from time spent among the bas. Of course he would look strange.

She set down the sword and came to the front of her shop. "_Shenadan_," she said in greeting.

"Ah, yes, hello," he said a little haltingly as if unused to speaking the language. "I am recently arrived home and need some of my armor and weapons repaired."

"Let me see," she requested. He set down his pack and unsheathed his sword. It was a greatsword, nearly as long as she was tall. Or at least it would have been had the end not snapped off. He handed her the broken piece. It was deeply scratched and pitted.

"What happened?" she breathed, eyes wide. She'd seen swords that had damage but nothing like this.

"Troll in the Frostback Mountains," he said. "Took us by surprise in the middle of the night. Can it be repaired?"

She felt the steel with her fingers. It was a well-made blade with strong steel. "Yes," she said. "But it will take several days. I have a few other orders to complete first."

"Thank you. That would be fine."

Next was his armor. She barely took a glance at it.

"It is nothing more than scrap," she announced, frowning at the numerous dents and patched cracks she could see. "I will melt it down and it will be used for another set."

The man look startled. "But I can't just leave without armor."

She blinked. "You won't. I have a new set waiting for you, though you will have to have it adjusted as your commander wasn't aware of your measurements."

"You've... been expecting me?"

"For a few days, yes." She cocked her head. "You are surprised?"

He shook his head slowly. "No... it's just strange to be home that's all." He smiled. "Things run so smoothly here."

She didn't know what to say to that. Efficiency was of the Qun. There was no other way to "run things." She carried the armor back into her shop and he followed a moment later, carrying the sword and a few pieces that she couldn't carry on her first trip.

"Please remove your clothes so I can fix the armor to your measurements." She called over her shoulder as she set the armor down in the scrap heap.

"Uh... I don't go naked under my armor," the soldier said. She walked past him into the room, giving him a confused look over her shoulder as she pulled a new set of clothes from the armoire in the corner.

"Of course not. I am giving you these clothes to wear. Your commander said you might stink of the bas and you need to be presentable for your report to the Ariqun in a few days."

He cleared his throat as he took the clothes from her. "Right... So... where's the bath?"

She pointed west. "Public bathing house one block west."

"I'll be back soon, I guess," he said and left.

When he returned with damp hair, smelling clean and looking more like a proper qunari, she hummed with approval and guided him inside her shop.

She made him wait while she fitted the various pieces to his body and made notes about the adjustments needed. He was leaner than she expected, though not through lack of nutrition, and well-muscled. He'd kept busy while on his mission. There was no softness about him that might indicate laziness or a life of ease. All was hard muscle.

She raised her eyes to find him staring at her, and she looked away, ashamed to feel her heart beating faster. What was wrong with her? He was well-looking enough for a male, but that made no difference to qunari. They were not bas, enslaved to their passions and physical lusts. Also, she wasn't due to be bred until the rainy season. She wondered idly who her next partner would be. The Tamassrans liked to try different combinations sometimes. Last time had been a scholar of some repute.

She cleared her throat, focusing again on her work. This armor adjustment was going to take longer than she thought. The cuirass was far too large for him, made for someone taller and bulkier.

Tsking in annoyance, she said, "There is a futon for you in the house."

He blinked. "What?"

She tightened the vambrace on his forearm, noting on her pad of paper that it would have to be lengthened. "I am used to soldiers coming to stay for a sword repair, though yours will take a day or two along with this armor, so I am prepared to give room."

He hesitated a moment before replying. "Ah. Yes... You know, the bas do not regard their swords the way we do, as pieces of their soul. To them a sword is a tool—a valuable tool—but just an object nonetheless. They would not hesitate to give it to a smith for repair and leave it behind."

"Really? How strange," she said. She finished her work in silence, still feeling odd, but it wasn't an unpleasant feeling. Smitty chalked it up to having a person in her house who was still shrugging off the disguises of the bas.

They ate the evening meal together and after imbibing some liquid from a bottle in his pack, he regaled her with stories from his travels. She listened with wonder, seeing the diminutive dwarves, lithe elves, and apish humans coming to life from his words.

It had grown late. Too late. She should have been asleep hours ago. Startled and more than a little annoyed at herself, she stood and immediately began clearing the table.

"What's the rush?" he asked, looking confused.

"If I don't go to bed now, I won't get enough sleep. If I don't get enough sleep, I won't be working as efficiently as I can tomorrow. Thank you for the stories," she said in a rush. He caught her hand as she turned to leave the room. She looked down at him. His grip wasn't strong and she could have flung him away without trouble, but she didn't.

"Thank you," he said after a moment. "I appreciate your kindness today in letting me stay here."

"It's nothing," she said, blinking with surprise.

He released her hand. "It isn't to me. Good night." He paused. "I don't even know your name."

"It is Blacksmith, of course," she said. "You can call me 'Smitty.' I... shortened it." She hurried on before he could voice any disapproval. "What is your rank?"

His smile was a little strained. "Can I ask you something? Would you call me by the name I had in the southern lands?"

"A name?"

"Yes. They called me Ben. It was a joke, you see." He paused. "After I make my report to the Ariqun, I will become... I will resume my rank again. But I'd like to hear my name for a little while longer."

"Ben," she said, trying it out on her tongue. It had a nice, solid sound to it. "Sleep well. Ben."

#

In the morning after eating, Smitty looked again at the sword that had been giving her so much trouble the day before "Ben" arrived.

"What's that?" Ben asked, emerging from the house into her shop with a yawn.

She nearly dropped it in surprise, a little embarrassed that he could sneak up on her. "A sword. I made a mistake in my calculation of materials needed for a large order a couple of weeks ago, so I had enough ore left over to make a sword. And I did. But..." She trailed off, then laid it down. "Nothing. It's a good sword. I will start on yours today."

"Can I see it?"

Hesitating without knowing why, Smitty handed it to him, hilt first. He laid it across his palms, testing the balance, examining it with the eye of a man used to handling weapons. He gripped it by the hilt.

"The hilt's not finished," she blurted out.

"Didn't think so," he said, giving it back to her. "Do you know what else you're going to do to it?"

She looked at it again, smoothed her fingers over the bright surface. "No. It's done... or it will be as soon as I finish wrapping the hilt."

"Why haven't you finished it?"

"I... I don't know," she admitted.

"Hmm," he said, and she caught him looking at her with an expression she didn't recognize. Feeling uncomfortable again, she turned away and began to get out her tools for the day, tying her leather apron over her clothes.

#

Ben was in and out of her shop over the course of the morning and afternoon as she worked on the other projects that had come before his.

Once, he sat outside, cleaning out his pack from the detritus that accumulates over long travel and emerged with a small parcel in his hand.

"Open it," he said, coming to stand next to her. "It's something from a place called Starkhaven. I've never seen them here. You should try it."

Smitty washed her hands of soot, oil, and grease, and unwrapped the package. Inside were what looked like small, hard loaves of bread. A couple of them were little more than crumbs from the stress of travel.

"They're called cookies," he said with a wide smile. "Eat one: they're delicious."

She lifted one to her mouth and bit down. It was soft and slightly crumbly at the same time. Sweetness mingled with a hint of salt melted on her tongue. Ben watched her expression and laughed.

"Good, aren't they?"

She nodded, swallowing. "The bas eat these for meals?"

"No, they're something called 'dessert.' It's sort of like a small meal after the main meal. After meat and bread and things like that."

He offered her another, but she hesitated. "I shouldn't eat these. They're yours."

"I'd rather share them." He looked somber. "Everything I brought back with me will probably be confiscated... better to eat them now so that they're enjoyed."

So she ate another, feeling delicious sort of almost rebelliousness.

"You've got some crumbs on your face," he said with a laugh.

She swiped at her mouth.

Ben laughed again. "Now there's chocolate! You're making it worse. Here—" He reached up and swiped his thumb across the corner of her mouth.

Smitty froze at his touch, though the expression on his face hadn't changed from one of gentle amusement.

"I need to get back to work," she said, and abruptly turned and went back into her workshop.

#

Ben's greatsword lay in two pieces in front of her on her workbench as she sifted through chunks of ore. The steel had to match otherwise it might break along the part she reforged. Also, it would look wrong.

Finally, in the bottom of the box, she found a chunk she thought would be a good match. She carefully broke it apart with a chisel, sweeping the pieces of ore into the crucible, and sealing it. Burying the crucible deep inside her kiln, she made sure she had plenty of wood and lit the fire. Ben watched as she worked, which was strange but not strange at the same time. Somehow, it felt... right that he should be there.

She frowned at the feeling, but then reasoned that perhaps it felt right because it was his sword after all. A warrior was never parted from their sword.

Once the fire got going, she left the kiln alone and went to work on adjusting the pieces of his armor.

"Can I borrow your horn brush and polish?" Ben asked, coming into her shop an hour later. "I've lost mine in my travels... and I should be presentable for the Ariqun."

"Of course." She walked inside and retrieved the stiff-bristled brush, suitable for digging into the rough grooves of qunari horns and removing accumulated dirt and oil. With it, she brought a basin of soapy water to rinse out the brush in. She sat the bowl beside Ben and gave him the brush, moving to go back to work. A grunt of pain made her pause and look back.

"Sorry, it's nothing," he said when he saw her looking. "Please, return to your work. I don't want to interrupt."

She nodded and turned back, but this time she heard the brush clatter to the floor.

"What's wrong?"

He looked a little embarrassed. "Old wound," he grunted, rubbing his shoulder. "Nothing to worry about."

Smitty looked at him. "You've hid an injury from me this whole time?"

He grimaced but didn't deny it.

She sighed and scooped up the brush, walking to stand behind him. He turned to look, but she grabbed one of his horns and forced his face forward. He grunted in surprise.

"I will help," she said. "Sit still."

His shoulders stiffened. "I cannot ask—"

"I am offering," she said, surprised at herself. Horn brushing wasn't something normally done by anyone else, except perhaps a bath attendant. Was she being too intimate? She hesitated at first but dunked the brush in the basin. Too late to back out now. She'd already said she would do it.

With vigorous strokes, she rubbed the brush across the large frontal horns, making sure to be gentle close to the base where they ejected from his scalp. Horns themselves had no feeling. They could be cut off without injury to the qunari, but they were a little sensitive on the scalp. Smitty had a bath attendant before her last breeding who'd been very good at massaging that particular spot. Once she finished toweling off the water left from the scrubbing, she rubbed horn polish into her palms and began to work her way from tip to scalp. When she began to massage the base without thinking, he shifted in his seat.

"Sorry," she said, pulling away. "I didn't mean—"

"No, it felt... nice," he said, clearing his throat.

When she finished and was walking away to toss the bowl of dirty water into the bushes, he grabbed her hand.

"Thank you," he said and she remembered the way he'd done this before, the first night, "for your kindness to me this week. I... I don't know if I will remember it after my re-education, but for now, I will hold it in my heart."

The bowl dropped from her hand, splattering water on her legs, but she didn't notice.

"What do you mean 're-education'?" she demanded, stalking to stand next to him. He'd stood up, toweling away some of the water that had dripped down his face.

He offered her a half smile. "You are a good qunari. Surely you can tell that I no longer am?"

She didn't reply, struggling with the immensity of the loss she felt.

"Why... why didn't you stay... away?" she said in a low voice, eyes darting around as if the Ariqun herself was standing at the windows listening.

"Because I love my people and my home," he said simply.

She swallowed. "The re-education process is not kind," she said, eyes searching his.

"It will be less unpleasant for me," he said, shrugging. "I will not fight it like the bas often do."

She clenched her fists. "But you won't be..." _You,_ she wanted to say. But that felt treasonous. Re-education was only done when there were errors in thinking. The right response would have been that yes, he needed it. But...

"Can I show you something?" he said suddenly. "Something I learned from watching the bas? Something I will no longer want after I report to the Ariqun?"

"What is it?"

"It's called a kiss," he said, and then he walked closer to her, so close she could feel the heat of his body radiating toward hers. He lowered his head slightly then paused. "May I show you?"

"You… already asked that," she whispered, trying to make her heart stop its ridiculous thumping.

"And do I have your permission?"

"Yes."

Ben did a strange thing then. His mouth gently covered hers. She was so surprised that for a moment, she just stood there thinking _we must look like fools_. But then his hand was coming up to smooth some errant hair away from her cheek and his lips moved softly over hers awakening a warmth within her that both frightened and thrilled her.

She should pull away. This feeling was wrong, the Tamassrans said. But another part of her, the curious part, wondered what would happen if she moved her mouth too?

#

"I didn't know," she said some time later, as Ben lazily stroked her bare arm as she lay against his chest.

"Know what?" he murmured.

"That mating could… could be this nice," she said in a soft voice. "Every other time it's… it's more of a business transaction."

"Yes…" Ben said, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "I prefer it this way as well. Asking, giving... no breeding charts. Just... us." He leaned his forehead to touch hers. "I will miss you most of all I think. I will miss what we might have been if... if we did not live in Seheron."

She didn't reply, hit anew with sudden coldness that Ben wouldn't be Ben after his sword was complete and he left to the Ariqun's compound.

She rolled out of bed, pulling on discarded clothes. "I need to work on your sword," she said in a choked voice to his questioning look, and hurried out before the tears could betray her.

#

The repairs to the sword were complete. Two more nights had passed before she could finish it. Two more nights of skin against skin and her heart turning itself inside out with the enormity of all she was trying to feel and not feel.

She handed the sword to him on the day he was to leave, stone-faced, trying to be as strong as the anvil behind her. Even with clothes and this new distance between them, her body seemed to ache with the memory of his hands and all that he'd said.

"Goodbye," she said abruptly, and turned around, grabbing the sword she'd worked on so long ago, ready to wrap the hilt and finish it.

"Smitty," he said, and she looked up, unable to help herself. He pulled her in for a kiss and she didn't resist, leaning into him, memorizing the feel of his mouth slanting across hers.

Then he was gone, stepping backward until he was at her door. There he paused, took one step back inside and lowered his voice.

"Every month a friend of mine,—a smuggler—waits at the Reef. Do you know where that is?"

She nodded.

"He loads and unloads cargo for two hours after sunset and then he casts off." Ben hesitated once more. "Mention my name and he will take you to the southern lands, no questions asked." He paused so long that she almost said something, then he spoke once more, gesturing at the sword still in her grip. "The problem with your sword isn't the sword. The problem is you. It is a perfectly functional sword, but you want it to be more: you want it to be beautiful." Then he turned back, facing the outside and was gone.

#

_Epilogue: two months later_

The finished sword was a deadly weapon and yet beautiful. Intricate scrollwork flowed from the smooth silver pommel, curling around the hilt until spilling out over the guard and halfway down the sword. It was the best and loveliest thing she'd ever made: a work of art.

Smitty handed it over to Ben's smuggler contact, a human with leathery tan skin and a few gold teeth. She towered over him by two feet at least, but he didn't seem disturbed. He pulled the sword free of its sheath and whistled in appreciation. "That'll do," he said in heavily accented Qunlat. "Just you then?"

"Just me," she agreed, pressing one hand against her swollen belly.

"Well, get aboard, miss. We'll be casting off shortly and you don't want your pretty little horns above the deck any longer than necessary. Just go up the gangplank there and my First Mate will tell you where to go."

Smitty—No, She-Who-Longer-Is looked once over her shoulder at the land which had given her life, purpose, and a set future, and then looked back to the ship that was to take her to the unknown.

She stepped onto the gangplank and didn't look back.


	14. Kindness

Callaia Lavellan jolted awake with a gasp as the strange mark on her hand gave a painful twinge and began to burn with eerie phosphorescent light. She could feel it like she could her own magic: a connection to the Fade, the origin of magic... and of the demons that poured through it.

Unlike her magic, however, the mark responded sluggishly or not at all to her willed attempts to quiet it. As she struggled, the light fading in and out like a guttering lamp, it briefly illuminated her strange companions sleeping around the campfire like spokes on a wheel. Varric, the beardless dwarf; Cassandra, the _shemlen_ warrior priest; and Cullen, the former templar. It was strange not to be surrounded by her clan. She missed the gentle snuffles of the halla, the creaking of the aravels; the woodsy smell of ironbark being carved by a master craftsman. But these strangers weren't so bad... she was their Keeper now, of a sort. She smiled despite the constant twinges of her hand. Keeper of a new clan... the strangest clan she'd ever seen.

Afraid that the light from her hand would awaken her companions, she slid out of her camp roll and walked just beyond the tree line. She tried some breathing exercises that the Keeper had shown her as a child just coming into her magic, hoping that would calm the throbbing light. She wasn't used to not knowing her own magic, but this mark was strange to her. It felt almost like she'd woken up with an extra limb that she didn't know how to use.

"Is anything amiss, Inquisitor?" Ser Cullen's quiet voice came from behind her.

She turned, still holding onto her hand. His eyes darted to the brightness visible on her hand even through the scarf she'd wrapped around it.

"It's... annoying me," she admitted but smiled, trying to reassure him. "I'm fine. Go back to sleep."

He took one step forward. "I might be able to help," he said. "My templar abilities—"

Callaia felt a twist of fear unfurl in her stomach, and her eyes darted to her staff, still laying by the fire next to her bed roll.

"N-no," she said, pressing her spine against a tree, mentally going through all the spells she could manage without her staff.

To her relief, Cullen took a step back, raising his hands. "I mean no harm," he said gently. "Also, I doubt I could overwhelm your abilities in contest anyway. I haven't... I haven't had much use for my abilities recently and without lyrium, they fade over time. I only offer because..." He paused as if searching for words. "Well, it's what templars were meant to do. To help mages control their abilities when needed; never to hurt or oppress."

Callaia stayed where she was, the bark of the tree a reassuring steadiness at her back. He seemed sincere.

"Will that be a problem?" she asked after a long minute of silence.

He blinked, looking thrown off balance. "Will what be a problem?"

"The lack of lyrium," she said. "I've heard that templars need it more than a drunkard needs drink."

He half turned away, his face in shadow. "No, I do not need it." A shudder seemed to run through him. "I will probably crave it the rest of my days, but I have not touched a drop in two years and I never intend to do so again. I will not be enslaved," he said this bit as if to himself. "No more. _My_ choice."

Callaia pushed off the tree and walked toward him, extending her hand as she approached.

Cullen glanced at her face for permission before slowly unwinding the scarf around her hand. The mark flared again and she grimaced, but Cullen didn't seem afraid. He gently touched the mark with his fingertips; they were warm against her skin. She'd never been this close to a human man before, let alone a templar, and her heartbeat skittered like a nervous halla, making the mark throb in response.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, watching her face.

"Not to touch," she said, "but it certainly isn't... comfortable when it... does whatever it's doing."

Cullen pressed her hand between his; not hard—she could have pulled her hand free if she wished—but it felt warm there: safe. "I'm going to try something," he said, searching her eyes. "Are you ready?"

She nodded, tensing. He squeezed her hand gently. "It won't hurt, I promise."

It started a second later, a cool wave of power coming from him and extending over their joined hands and gradually up her arms until her whole body felt awash in a tingling wave of energy. It felt almost like the moment one came out of a bath: clean and fresh. Gooseflesh rippled over her skin.

The throbbing of her hand faded at once into a dim pressure in the back of her mind, and she let out an involuntary sigh of relief.

He opened his hands, looking at the mark critically. It was still there but dim rather than blinding. "Better?"

"Yes," she said, removing her hand and curling it against her chest.

"If you fight against it, it won't last very long," he said, "but if you keep relaxed, it should last the rest of the night." He glanced at the sky. "Or whatever's left of it anyway."

She nodded. "Thank you, Ser Cullen."

"Just Cullen," he said with a smile. "I am no longer in the Order."

She frowned. "You are to be the leader of the Inquisitions armies, so I understand from the Seeker. You should have a title: a rank, yes? Humans seem to expect those kinds of things, so your men will too."

He coughed gently, seeming embarrassed. "Well, properly speaking, I have not earned the rank of commander—"

"Commander Cullen it is," Callaia said.

He stared at her. "Just as easy as that, then?"

She shrugged, stepping out past him through the tree line back to the campsite. He fell into step beside her, shortening his stride to keep pace with her.

"I have a feeling the Inquisition will face much bigger problems than the arbitrary handing out of rank," she said in a soft voice, rubbing her thumb across the slumbering mark.

"Indeed."

They were silent for two more steps until Callaia paused, turning to the tall man beside her. "Cullen?"

"Yes?"

She rubbed at the mark again, not looking at him. "May I... if I need to again... will you..."

Cullen stilled her fretful rubbing with a gentle touch. "Of course. Whatever you need, Inquisitor. I am here." He inclined his head in a half bow. That and the generosity of his answer left her momentarily speechless as he headed back to his spot by the fire. She had been raised on tales of _shemlen_ greed and betrayal... the stories had not also mentioned their kindness as well.


	15. Innocence

Josephine found Inquisitor Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste, huddled on a pew in the Skyhold Chantry, sniffling. A Sister in carmine robes was trying to keep vigil with the young woman, but—Josephine checked the hourglass in the corner—it was past midnight, and the Sister had an early start for morning prayers as it was. As she walked closer, she could see the Sister's face: slack with exhaustion but brow furrowing every now and then as if she was concentrating on staying awake.

Josephine eased her way up the row and touched the Sister on the shoulder. "You can leave, Sister. I'm going to speak to the Inquisitor for a moment."

To her credit, the Sister shook her head. "Inquisitor Trevelyan asked for my prayers. I shouldn't leave—" A yawn split her words and the older woman blushed.

A hand snacked out of the nest of blankets that was Inquisitor Trevelyan and gestured. "Go on to bed, Sister. We've prayed enough for one night, I think."

The Sister was still in control enough not to show her relief, but her steps quickened as she left the pew and headed toward her quarters.

Josephine sat down next to Elanor in the place the Sister had vacated, taking note of the woman's red eyes.

"He'll be okay, you know," she said gently to the Inquisitor.

Elanor sniffed loudly, rummaging around in her blankets for a handkerchief until Josephine took pity on her and gave her one of her own.

"Commander Cullen is a man of some skill and intelligence," Josephine continued. "He will come traipsing back to Skyhold in a few days full of the triumph of his success."

Elanor shot her a dark look. "Out of all people, Josie, I hoped you wouldn't be the one who lied to me. You know very well that I may have just sent Cullen to his death. And if he does die, it will be entirely my fault." She blew her nose again.

Josephine reached out a hand and squeezed her fingers in silent apology. "Did you analyze the mission?"

"Of course."

"Who was the best person to get the desired outcome?"

"Cullen."

"Then," Josephine said calmly, "I suggest you trust his skill and continue as you have before. There's no sense in making yourself sick and exhausted by staying up all night worrying over his return."

Elanor fiddled with the handkerchief. "I am worried about his safety, Josie, but… it's not really what's keeping me up."

Josephine blinked, all the surprise she would let herself show. "What is it, then?"

"It's the fact that I had to make the decision at all," she whispered. "And I made it nearly without hesitation. I mean, I know we've been doing this… " she waved a hand vaguely at the surrounding walls of Skyhold, "for a few months now, but it hadn't mattered before. I mean, I _cared_ about the people going on missions, but none of them were…"

"Sharing your bed?"

Elanor blushed red to the roots of her hair. "Josie!" She glanced in the direction the Sister had left. "I was going to say 'special to me'!" Her fingers crumpled the handkerchief again. "I guess… it scared me, when I realized how carelessly I've handled the power of life and death."

Josephine looked at her friend with some compassion. "You know it will not get easier from here. There are worse decisions coming down the road, and you must make them."

"I know," Elanor said quietly. "Let me just... mourn the loss of my innocence for a bit, okay?"

"Okay." She stayed in silent contemplation of the sunburst circle in front of the Chantry for a few minutes, then glanced sidelong at Elanor. "Want to go to the kitchen and get some cookies?"

Elanor sniffed again, smiling. "Yeah. Let's do that."


	16. Judgement Day

"Are you nervous?"

Elanor Trevelyan looked in the mirror at Vivienne who was supervising the elf girl teasing her hair into some semblance of style.

"Not any more than usual. This isn't my first judgement," she replied, shifting her eyes away to the rest of the room. Thick carpets lay strewn around her bedroom. Only here at the vanity did the carpets end. Elanor curled her toes up away from the cool stone floor and she quietly resolved to put a little money back to buy one more carpet for this spot. She hated cold feet.

"You look distressed," the mage said, raising an eyebrow. "Don't. Stress causes wrinkles."

Elanor met the older woman's gaze in the mirror and held it. "Today I must face five men and decide whether their lives end here today or not. Not even the Maker could erase that thought from my mind." Inwardly, she prayed again for wisdom in the coming hours. Would that these men had met her openly on a field of battle. There was no doubt there. Kill or be killed. Simple. Clean. Honest.

"I do not ask that you put it from your mind, little dove, only hide it." Vivienne made a tsking sound and shooed the elf back so the Orlesian woman could take her place with the hot curling rod, heated by her magic. "In Orlais, it is the height of the Game to learn to hide your emotions from your face. A smooth mask concealing hatred and lust alike. A useful skill to learn, not unlike your skill with daggers."

Elanor's glance fell on her twin blades in their racks by the door, gleaming with oil from the last time she'd cleaned them. The mage spoke of skill with her face as if it was something you could learn. She was a Free Marcher, not some stone-faced Orlesian.

"The court is my battlefield, little dove," said Vivienne as if guessing her thoughts. "I would trust your opinion on the best way to hack and slash your way to an enemy. Trust me when I say that controlling your outward expressions may serve you well."

Elanor thought of what she knew about the men coming before her for judgement. Would they be better served by seeing compassion? No… if they were guilty, compassion might lure them into a false sense of security, and she would not toy with condemned men like that. Or they might sense weakness and that was no good either. Anger? But no... anger often did nothing but reflect off the person it was directed to. They were more likely to be sorry that they were caught, than show actual repentance. And if they were innocent, anger would frighten them unnecessarily.

Slowly, Elanor watched her face in the mirror, schooling it in a mask of impassive coolness that she'd often seen on Vivienne. For a moment, her mother was looking back at her in the mirror. It startled her. She was used to wearing a smile, used to wearing her joy, her fears, her anger; her sadness. It was what made her such a horrible Wicked Grace player, much to Varric's delight.

"There," Vivienne stepped back to admire her work. "Do you approve?"

Elanor looked at the crown of hair the mage had somehow pinned up with sculpted curls cascading over one shoulder. The effect was softening and even without makeup applied yet, the hair framing her face somehow made her eyes seem bigger, innocent. If this had been any other situation, Elanor might have squealed for joy and gathered the mage in a hug before running to show off to Josie and then "accidentally" encounter Cullen to see the effect her transformation had on him.

Elanor shook her head. "No."

The mage frowned. "No?"

"You made me look like a queen, Vivienne," Elanor said slowly, meeting the mage's eyes. "But today I need to look like an Inquisitor."

Vivienne held her gaze for a second longer than nodded, approval flashing across her face. "As you wish… Inquisitor."


	17. Prompt: Death by embarassment

**Prompt: Death by embarrassment**

* * *

The timing had finally been right. Weeks of heated glances, quick kisses before battle, but nothing more until now. Elanor Trevelyan arched her body against Cullen's as they stumbled to her room. She could only see glimpses of stone and torchlight out of the corners of her eyes. Cullen must have been guiding them because somehow one moment they were kissing fiercely in the corridor and the next he was attempting to shut the door to her bedroom with his foot.

They fell to the bed in a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter. Elanor winced as his belt buckle dug into her stomach.

"Boots n' trousers," she murmured against his mouth. He kissed the words away, leaving her gasping for air.

"Boots n' trousers," he agreed with a smile so happy it made her ache.

The intrusive articles of clothing taken care of, Elanor shivered with delight as his fingers worked next on the buttons of her tunic when a voice made everything come to a screeching halt.

"Inquisitor?"

Cullen rolled off her with a muffled oath, and Elanor snatched up the bed sheet to cover herself.

Cole stood in the doorway to her room, his large, pale eyes staring at them expressionlessly.

Elanor cleared her throat, trying to still the pounding of her heart. "Cole," she said gently, "didn't we have a conversation about knocking on the door when it's closed?"

"Oh," Cole said, blinking. "I'm sorry. I forgot."

Elanor sighed. Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath.

"Did you need something, Cole?" she asked, still gently.

He seemed to shrink in on himself. "I had a bad dream," he said in a soft voice. "Will you come sing me to sleep? I like your songs. They chase the darkness away."

Elanor bit her lip and looked at Cullen. "Go," he said with rueful smile. "I'll wait for you."

She kissed his cheek, pulled on a robe over her smallclothes and walked Cole back to his room. She didn't really think that he slept, being spirit and all. Solas had theorized that, like most things in the Fade, Cole saw that mortals slept and so copied them even if he didn't truly sleep in the physical sense.

"What were you and Ser Cullen doing?" he asked a moment later.

Elanor blushed, glad for the dim light of the corridor. "We were... hugging," she said, hesitating, though it technically wasn't a _lie_ since Cole had walked in before anything had... happened. Then, realizing that she and Cullen probably weren't the only ones in Skyhold who might get interrupted by a wandering Cole, added, "Adult mortals who... enjoy each other's company sometimes like to have private time alone together."

"Without clothes on?"

Her face felt like it was on fire. "Yes... sometimes without clothes on."

"Oh," he said. Then, after a pause, "I interrupted, didn't I?"

"Yes," she said, "But I'm not angry at you, Cole. You know that, right?" She smiled at him reassuringly. "But… that's one of the reasons I ask people to knock before opening the door to my office or my room."

"I will remember next time," he said.

They reached his room and he crawled into his bed, laying on his back and staring up at the ceiling.

Elanor sat on the chair beside the bed. "Which Canticle would you like me to sing tonight?"

"The one that sounds like a prayer? I like it."

Elanor nodded. He requested that one a lot.

_"O Maker, hear my cry:_  
_Guide me through the blackest nights_  
_Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked_  
_Make me to rest in the warmest places…"_

_#_

The next day Elanor and Cullen were pouring over the war map in her office, marking known Red Templar outposts and putting together the outlines of a plan to take the nearest. They were expecting Leliana and the attack team to join them at any moment

"Sister Leliana's scouts report a probable breach point here," Cullen said, using a stub of charcoal to mark the western entrance of the enemy keep.

Elanor nodded then glanced up at the door as she heard voices approaching. "They're here," she said, straightening.

They both waited expectantly as the voices grew nearer, but then they paused.

"You can't go in right now," said Cole's voice, somehow carrying through the thick door.

"Why not?" asked someone else.

"Because the Inquisitor and General Cullen are having private alone time right now and we shouldn't interrupt."

Just as Elanor and Cullen were looking at each other in horror, they could hear Cole speak again.

"And they might not have any clothes on."


	18. Prompt: Where do we go from here?

**Prompt: Where do we go from here? (part 1 of 2)**

* * *

"So what is the first thing you want to do when this is all over?" Inquisitor Elanor Trevelyan asked Cullen over dinner one night. She'd made an executive decision earlier in the large dining room they usually shared with their companions, grabbing her plate and gesturing for Cullen to follow. They endured cat-calls and shouted advice from their companions as they left (including a particularly ribald suggestion from Bull that made Cullen blush), but really, all they wanted was a little privacy at least one night a week. Alone time was hard to find in Skyhold, even considering how enormous it was. Someone always wanted something.

Cullen chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then shrugged. "Assuming we survive? I don't know, really. Haven't given it much thought. Just getting through one day takes enough." He speared a chunk of braised lamb with his fork and smiled. "I take it you have?"

"I want," Elanor said in a dreamy voice, "a cookie. No! Lots of cookies. Or maybe just one giant cookie as big as my head."

Cullen, in the middle of chewing, tried not to laugh. "We have cookies in the kitchen," he pointed out, swallowing his bite. "I remember when we hired a cook you insisted upon his being able to bake as well."

She made a face at him and lightly tapped him under the table with her foot as she resumed eating her meal. "Not just _any_ cookies. There's a pâtisserie in Ostwick that makes the most amazing cookies and pastries. I hope it's still standing. I want to show you my favorite." Her eyes sparkled.

Cullen cleared his throat. "You want to show... me?"

"Of course!" she said, reaching across the table to lay her hand over his. "I want to introduce you to my parents; my family."

Cullen felt his stomach clench over the food he'd just eaten. "Are you sure?"

Elanor laughed. "Why wouldn't I be?" She stroked her thumb against his hand. "They'll love you."

Cullen withdrew his hand, hating the hurt he saw on her face. "I... don't think they will." He hesitated, then plowed forward. "Elanor, I'm a... a foundling boy given to the Chantry when I was a baby. It's likely that I'm... illegitimate. I'm not of noble birth."

She raised one shoulder in a careless shrug. "That doesn't matter to me. Why should it to them?"

"Noble families have certain expectations," he protested. "I saw it all the time in Kirkwall."

Her lips thinned and she put her fork down with a clink. "So, because you saw a bunch of stuck up snobs in Kirkwall, you assume that my family is the same?"

"Yes, I-I mean no! But you cannot deny that your family expects you to marry into a noble house to forge useful connections." He saw her eyes narrow.

Elanor pushed back from the table slightly, hands trembling. "That responsibility belongs to the heir—my brother. But even he has been told to choose for love. My parents have no desire to be forever connected to a family whose only concern is for wealth and title. I have always known that I would be able to choose for myself and you assume that even if they were these types of people, that I would abandon you because my family disapproved? Is your opinion of my integrity so low?"

"N-no, of course not—"

"What did you think this was?" Elanor gestured at the rest of the bedroom, her cheeks growing red as her anger rose. "Did you think I would invite just any man to my bed? That I was using you while my heart remained untouched? A little noble girl playing house on her first time outside of home?" She stopped suddenly, staring at him, and her face drained of color. "That _is_ what you thought of me," she breathed, voice hollow.

"Elanor—" Cullen stood, attempting to go around the table, but she held out one shaking hand, her eyes glittering.

"You need to leave," she said in a calm, cold voice that he'd only heard her use while pronouncing judgement. "And aside from business, do not speak to me again until you've learned how not to insult me."

Cullen felt as if his heart lay cracked and bleeding on the table between them. Somehow he managed to leave, but not so quickly that he didn't hear a muffled sob from the room behind him.


	19. Prompt: Where do we go from here part 2

**Prompt: Where do we go from here? Part 2**

* * *

"I am a coward."

Elanor Trevelyan paused in the middle of her smooth progress through her dagger forms. Cullen recognized a few of them. He'd watched her practice them before, months ago, when Elanor was still trying to figure out what the mark on her hand meant; when he had wondered if they would survive until the next morning. Even in the middle of the chaos of those first days, she'd made an effort to keep up her training. It had impressed him then, the discipline to move so quickly through her stances without so much as a single hesitation.

Today, the momentary pause was only that. The daggers blurred into motion again.

"That's your excuse?" Elanor said in that same cool voice he'd come to dread over the past two weeks. The same voice she used when speaking to a condemned criminal. To low life scum.

Cullen swallowed and risked walking in front of her so he could see her face.

"It's not an excuse," he said, meeting her eyes. "Only an explanation... or the start of one, if I may."

For a moment, he thought she might refuse to hear him. There was a hardness around her eyes that didn't bode well for any attempt on his part. Then she nodded, still not looking at him, and he relaxed a little.

"You already know much of my history," he began, "my being given to the Chantry, the events..." He clenched his hands convulsively, "at the Circle of Ferelden, and the uprising in Kirkwall in which I had to help slay my Knight-Commander. In that moment, with Kirkwall burning around me, I knew that the future was dark and grim. I am not naturally of an optimistic disposition regardless, and everything I had experienced up to that moment convinced me that the world was cruel and that the only option was to survive the best way that I could on my own." He paused. "Until I met you."

Her daggers flickered again in uncertain movement.

He pressed on. "I need not recount for you the progress of our growing attachment, but I will say this: whatever happens to us, to our venture, those days will remain the happiest I have ever known, and I will treasure the memory of them to the end of my life."

This time she did pause and meet his eyes, her own reflecting surprise and lingering pain.

He swallowed and hurried on. "It wasn't long before my nature reared its ugly head. I became convinced that you were going to be taken from me, or I from you. Given the extreme danger we find ourselves in on a regular basis, our odds to end up as a happy couple riding off into the sunset are slim. I did not think this consciously, I believe, but it was there all the same. So rather than face the fear of losing you, I began to make up excuses for why we shouldn't be together in the first place And... as a criminal blames his incarceration not on his own behavior but the injustice of the world, I even started to think that you couldn't care for me the way I cared for you." He closed his eyes, the words burning his throat like poison as they emerged. "That night at dinner you cut straight to the heart of me with your words, exposing my cowardice for what it was. I am... You will never know the depths of my regret. It has taken much reflection on my part to realize my error and the causes behind it, and I am so very sorry for hurting you, Elanor."

Her face was hard to read. When had she learned to do that? Time was when he had been used to reading her every expression. Several heartbeats passed before he found his voice again.

"You are not the kind of woman who leads men on," he said in a quiet voice. "If you no longer wish to be... bothered by me, say the word, and I will remain your military adviser but nothing more."

In answer, she slowly sheathed her blades, took two steps forward and wrapped her arms around him. Cullen let out a shuddering breath, and pulled her close.

"If you were a coward," she said softly, her breath tickling his chin, "I never would have fallen in love with you."

He swallowed hard, relishing the warmth of her against him, terribly aware of just how close he'd come to losing her by his own stupidity.

"I know it was only two weeks," he said in a rough voice, "but I missed you."

"Well," she said in a lighter voice, "I suppose we have some lost time to make up for."

"Ah, yes," he stuttered, flushing crimson as she began pressing kisses on his jaw and chin. To save himself from the possibility of one of their companions coming out into the practice yard, he picked the most expedient method and simply carried her inside.

She did not mind.

* * *

**Bonus ficlet that goes—time-wise—before part 1, but it didn't fit in anywhere else, so here it is:**

"I don't understand," Cole said, his brow furrowed.

"It's okay, Spook," Varric said, sipping his drink. 'You don't have to understand. Let the Inquisitor and General Cullen deal with their own problems."

"Human relationships are... complicated," Cullen said, closing his eyes. The last thing he wanted to do was rehash what had happened with a spirit that had the mind of a child. He'd been wary of Cole at first, but time had proven that the spirit—whatever he was—was no simple demon that preyed on the emotions of humans. Nor did he seem like the... thing that had taken the mage Anders in Kirkwall.

"Are you enemies?"

"Maker, no," Cullen sighed.

"People can have... disagreements without resorting to physical violence," Varric offered. "Otherwise, the Seeker and I would have been messy bloodstains on the walls weeks ago."

"Good," Cole said, "I don't want to be your enemy."

Touched, despite himself, Cullen smiled. "And I don't want to be your enemy either."

"No," the spirit said quietly. "You don't."


	20. Prompt: Voice of the people

**Prompt: Voice of the people**

* * *

Varric took one bite of the chicken and nearly spit it out. "Maker! What did you put on this, Scribbles, live coals?"

Josephine's eyes twinkled. "Just a traditional spice from Rivain. I _did_ warn you." She passed a dish of rice to Cullen. It had been the Inquisitor's idea to have each of her companions make a special meal one night out of a week. So far they'd had Fereldan lamb stew from Cullen and Orlesian roasted duck from Leliana. Tonight was Josephine's turn.

"Ooh!" Elanor Trevelyan said, accepting the dish from Varric to put some of the chicken onto her own plate. "I like spicy things!"

"Be careful!" Josie warned, but Elanor dug right in, cutting a piece and popping it in her mouth.

All watched with curiosity but she merely chewed and swallowed.

"That is delicious, Josie!" she said, beaming.

Varric stopped guzzling water to gape at her. "How in the Void did you stand to have that on your tongue for more than two seconds?"

Elanor shrugged, taking another bite. "I've had hotter things than this in my mouth."

Cullen choked.

The table exploded with laughter from every corner except Cole's (the spirit wasn't the best at catching onto jokes).

"I meant that I'd tasted spicier things!" Elanor cried, cheeks ablaze.

The laughter only grew louder.

"All hail the Inquisitor!" Varric managed to say through the tears running down his cheeks. "Voice of the people! Herald of Andraste!"

"I hate you all," muttered Elanor.


	21. Some Trevelyan headcanon

_A/N: Some more Trevelyan background headcanon_

* * *

Guard-Captain Lewis resisted the urge to roll his neck as he strode toward the barracks. Training dull-minded soldiers was not how he imagined spending his twilight years. It wasn't that the men of the Trevelyan guard weren't good or shirked their duties. He'd weeded out the bad ones weeks ago and sent them packing. But there was no _spark_ to any of them. They did what was asked of them but nothing more. Just once he'd like to have that feeling of being able to help mold a talent... to nurture it like his old master did for him.

He paused on the threshold of the barracks, the sight before him momentarily arresting his thoughts.

A girl—no more than eight or nine years old—in the pale, butter-colored robes of the Chantry stood staring open-mouthed at the rack of weapons near one of the bedsteads.

He opened his mouth to ask her what she was doing there, but a slip of paper clutched in one of her hands gave the answer. Probably Mother Madeleine asking for an escort to the city to run some errands. Lot of Fereldan refugees in Ostwick lately, and not all of them were friendly. Folks were whispering about a Blight, but surely it couldn't be that bad? Maybe it was just a very large raid...

The girl rocked back and forth on her heels a little, chewing her lower lip in the manner of children trying very hard to resist a temptation. Lewis, amused despite himself, took a quiet step back to watch. Any other Chantry initiate would have waited quietly with folded hands on the threshold for his arrival. But this one had opened a closed door and, even now, was lifting a small hand to one of the throwing knives on the lowest part of the rack.

He knew he ought to stop her. Knives were dangerous even to adults if you didn't know how to handle them. But he could tell she was being cautious, carefully holding only the hilt, her fingers wrapping securely around its short length.

"Ha!" She mimed a clumsy forward thrust, a move more reserved for the ridiculous fancy duels nobles sometimes did to show off their skills than something that was used in actual battle. But there was something about the move... Lewis's eyes widened. This girl wasn't just an initiate—she was the youngest Trevelyan lass. He'd seen her before, sometimes in the company of her parents, but mostly in her Chantry robes and had forgotten that she was in fact a noblewoman. Her sword work ought to be far better than that. She ought to have begun her training at the beginning of this summer if he had her age aright. No Trevelyan child was ever without weapons training.

He'd made up his mind when a flurry of steps to his right announced the arrival of a sister, also in Chantry robes, with a prim bun and pursed lips. She paused upon seeing him.

"Guard-Captain Lewis," she said with a nod, "have you seen—"

The little Trevelyan lass dropped her knife with a clatter, drawing the sister's eyes to her inside the room.

She gasped and bustled inside. "Elanor! What are you doing? You were to deliver a message and come right back to the Chantry!"

"I'm sorry, Sister Ida, I was just—"

The sister grabbed her by the shoulder, harsh enough that the little lass winced at the pressure. "None of your excuses! I'm going to speak to Mother Madeleine about you... again!"

"Here, lass," he found himself saying, striding forward, casually blocking the doorway. "Let's get you a wooden one. That'll be safer to practice with."

The sister narrowed her eyes. "What is the meaning of this, Guard-Captain?"

"Oh?" He said with a bright voice. "Didn't you know? I always train the Trevelyan family personally. It's high time the little lass learn to handle a weapon. Family name to live up to and all that."

Sister Ida sniffed. "Elanor Trevelyan was dedicated to the Chantry. There will be no need for silly swordplay. Her life will be one of service and contemplation."

He didn't move. "Her mother, her father, her brother," he said in a firm voice. "All of them have been trained. It's time she was too." At her frown he relented a little. "It won't interfere much with her Chantry duties, Sister. A few hours a day is all I need. And," he added on inspiration, "if this is indeed a Blight as the rumors say, she'll need to be able to defend herself and the people of this house."

"Please, Sister Ida?" whispered Elanor, raising wide eyes to her face. "I won't ever complain about resetting the candles, or polishing the pews, or... or anything else again."

The Sister seemed to soften. "I will need to speak with Mother Madeline, and your parents," she said. "But... it would be nice to have you out of my hair for a little while during the day."

"Oh thank you!" The little lass flung her arms around the woman's legs.

"There, there now. None of that. Come. It's nearly time for evensong. I can speak with Mother Madeleine after."

Lewis stepped aside to let them pass and had to hide a laugh when the little lass looked back and gave him a big toothy grin and a thumbs-up.


	22. Prompt: Haunted

**Prompt: Haunted**

A/N: Though the prompt helped tease the idea to the surface, what really prompted this was a character building exercise. What would your character do if the story hadn't happened to them? So many great characters only exist for the purpose of fulfilling their mission the book, movie, game, or whatever. But what would they do if the plot never happened? Give them a hobby, a desire, a _something_ that they love. Thinking about what my Elanor Trevelyan would be doing if the Inquisition hadn't happened helped bring this story to light.

* * *

The ruin was little more than a drafty fortress, Cullen thought as he traipsed through a rubble-strewn courtyard. It was large and isolated, to be sure, but it would need a lot of work—and gold—to be an effective headquarters for the fledgling Inquisition. Maker, it would need a lot of work just to be habitable.

He stepped back inside, which really wasn't all that different from being outside, since a large chunk of the ceiling on this side was missing. He grimaced as a rat skittered in the corner of the room, looking at him with beady eyes. They should also see about getting a cat. Maybe a small army of them. Or a trusty mabari...

A few more rooms to go. He gripped the hilt of his sword a little tighter. Old ruins could be full of the simple dangers of neglect and age... but sometimes more sinister things took up residence in the dark corners of the world. The Seeker, at least, had agreed with him on that. She was now searching the opposite end of the ruin with the Inquisitor. The dwarf was supposed to be with him but had run off to examine what had once been a wine cellar. Cullen supposed he would have to unearth him sooner or later. But best to be sure about any potential threats first.

He didn't get far before his ears heard a faint something. He paused, holding his breath. No, he hadn't imagined it... music. A faint thread of melody drifted through the empty halls. He'd heard of some of the cleverer demons that enticed through means like this... seeming innocent, even beautiful, before they sank their claws into you.

"Maker, guard and preserve us," he breathed, calling forth his dormant templar abilities. But the cleansing wave didn't make him feel any different... nor did it make the music disappear. He frowned and followed the sound of the delicately plucked strings. The ruin was a bit of a maze and with the wind drifting in and out, the melody seemed to skip around, coming from one direction, then another, haunting him with the ghostly sound.

But his disquiet disappeared entirely when he emerged into what proved to be a balcony overlooking what must have been an impressive hall in its day. The Inquisitor—Serah Trevelyan—was sitting at the end of the hall on his level, in what must at one time been a musicians stage. Her arms cradled a lute, the wood almost glowing with a shaft of light that came in through the ceiling.

Cullen found himself arrested by the sight and the way her fingers tripped lightly over the strings. He'd suspected she was musical—she'd hummed to herself as they had hiked to the ruin—but where had she found a lute? Or had she brought it with her? He hadn't closely observed her enough, he supposed.

His intention of revealing himself in a circumspect manner became impossible when her fingers twitched into a new melody, one he immediately recognized as "Yes We Have No Orlesians," a popular drinking song of mostly nonsense words and silly rhymes. He snorted in laughter and felt his face warm when she looked up to see him.

Instead of seeming irritated, she grinned and bowed in a ridiculously flamboyant manner. "Commander Cullen. Finished your inspection? Are we demon free?"

"It seems so, Inquisitor," he said. But when she swished past him, her face glowing with contentment, humming the tune she'd just finished playing, he thought that demons or no, he would still be haunted here... but in a different way than he was expecting.


	23. Prompt: Easily Amused

**Prompt: Easily Amused**

A/N: More Trevelyan headcanon. Pre-game.

* * *

The children climbed out of the pond, soaked to the skin, but shrieking with laughter.

Elanor Trevelyan—just as wet as the little ones—used her longer legs to get to the front of the group.

"And that, children, is how to not climb a tree, though I do thank you very much for the brave and timely rescue."

"Will you sing a climbing song for us?" asked one of the little girls, her hair dripping into a puddle on the ground. "Like the one you sang about riding a horse?"

"Oh please, Sister Elanor!" the other children clamored, coming up to her sodden skirts, pressing their cold, wet little bodies close.

She beamed down at them. "I think I can whip something up. But first I need my lute!" She paused, glancing down at the cheering faces. "And we all need some dry clothes."

The children didn't respond to this with the dismay she had expected and saw that they were all looking past her. She glanced over her shoulder. Her brother stood at the end of the garden path that led to the pond and the old tree (now with conspicuously broken branch).

"Bartie!" Elanor cried in greeting. "Did you want an impromptu swimming lesson too?"

The children giggled but softly. They were a bit in awe of her Bartram Trevelyan, heir to the estate. He was a stolid, dependable sort of man. Predictable in his likes and dislikes, kind without being condescending, and pleasant to everyone as a rule. He was, in other words, the perfect heir to a noble house and incredibly boring. But he was her brother and she loved him.

Her brother's bland face frowned. "No, thank you, sister. Might I have a word?"

Elanor looked down at the little faces crowded around her. "Go on into the dormitories. Sister Ida will help you with dry clothes. I'll have a new song ready by the time you're all dressed."

With a few lingering looks, the children scampered off, trailing wet footprints and the smell of pond water.

Bartram Trevelyan watched her wring out her braid and sighed. "Must you encourage their misbehavior, sister? It is your duty to see that those poor orphans grow to be productive members of Ostwick. Yet it seems every day I hear one of the Chantry lay people complaining about them."

Elanor looked up from her braid. "Have they been bad?"

"Well, no, nothing really... singing those silly songs you put into their heads... giggling during the Chant..."

Elanor couldn't help herself as she grinned. "Those are horrible crimes indeed."

Bartram just looked at her. "They are not your children, sister," he said in a quiet voice.

Elanor bent over to squeeze out her skirt and to avoid looking at him, to hide the sudden ache that must have shown on her face. Luckily for her, Bartie continued.

"Their parents are dead or incapable of caring for them. Our Chantry takes them in and they must apprentice out of here eventually, like they all do. It does neither you nor them any favors when you encourage their attachment to you. Your responsibilities lie elsewhere."

"I know," she said, then looked up. "But I will never turn aside a child starving for love, Bartie. Don't you dare tell me to do otherwise. A few of those children lost their families in this war between the mages and templars. We cannot just treat them like... like animals whose only purpose is to eat and grow fat before we ship them out elsewhere." She drew in a breath. "The Sisters are overworked. It helps them when I take the children for outings."

He sighed. "Ella, you know I would never ask you to turn away a child in need. And they are good children, whatever the complainers may say," he said, the stiffness in his shoulders relaxing. "I... well, I worry that you won't be able to leave them when the time comes."

She stopped worrying at her dripping dress and stared at him. "What are you talking about?"

Bartram looked back at the house, its yellowing walls a testament to its age. "There've been rumors of peace talks, finally. The Chantry wishes to have a conclave, to meet with the mages, to settle things as peacefully as possible. Our family being what it is... we are sending you and a small contingent to witness the proceedings and to provide... assistance should the need arise."

Elanor stilled. Very few people outside the family knew about her skill with daggers. To most, even a few inside the Trevelyan Chantry, she was the youngest daughter who had been dedicated to the Chantry as a child but had yet to take vows. She wouldn't be able to put it off much longer... if she could only be sure it was the Maker's will...

She shook off the thought. Now was not the time for personal hang-ups about her future. "By 'assistance' you mean to guard the Chantry people if the mages decide to attack."

Bartram nodded. "Naturally, we pray it won't come to that... and then your role would only be as a witness to a historical event of interest to everyone in the parish."

_And to our family,_ Elanor thought, her mind flitting to the one sibling she barely remembered, the one locked in Ostwick's Circle. Or at least she had been before the templars razed the building. No one knew what had happened to her. No one outside the family even knew she existed. If there was peace... maybe they could find her and let her back into the family proper. No more pretending she didn't exist.

Elanor let out a breath. "When and where?"

"A place called Haven, in Ferelden, next month. You have until then to get your affairs in order."

Elanor laughed. "'My affairs?' Bartie, I'm hardly going to the other side of the world. I'll be back as soon as it's over."

He glanced pointedly in the direction the children had gone. "This is war, Ella," he said in a low voice. "You'd best prepare them for the possibility of…" his voice grew rough. "Of the worst."

Elanor walked up to him and squeezed his arm. "I'll be fine. I promise. Guard-Captain Lewis always said I was his best student. It'll be okay."

Bartram nodded, but his round face was still glum.

Grinning, Elanor threw her arms around him, and he squirmed in her grasp. "Ella! You're soaking wet!"

"I know!" she crowed, releasing him and dancing away with a gleam in her eye. "And now you are too!"

He gave her a long-suffering look. "You are far too easily amused."

"Someone has to be around here." She laughed and skipped past him on the path out of the gardens. A song was already bubbling in her mind. She needed her lute.

-end-


	24. Prompt: I've seen worse

**A/N: Every story previous to this one was - obviously - written before the game came out. Everything from here on out will be based on the game and thus might contain spoilers. You have been warned!**

**Prompt: I've seen worse**

Josephine entered her office in the chantry at Haven. Greeting Minaeve politely, Josephine sat down at her desk, only to jump to her feet with an indecorous squeal as something warm touched her foot.

"It's just me," said the Herald of Andraste.

Josephine blinked. "What are you doing under my desk?"

Minaeve snickered. "Hiding."

Josephine blinked. "What are you hiding from?"

The mage chuckled again. "More like from whom?"

Josephine flicked her eyes at the elf. "Could you give us a few moments, Mina?"

The elf left the office, still giggling and Josephine sat back down on her chair, raising at eyebrow at the Herald who was still tucked under her desk.

"That can't be very comfortable," she noted after the door had closed.

Lady Trevelyan shrugged. "It's the only place I could think of that he wouldn't come."

Josephine's eyebrows rose. "'He'? Who are you hiding from, my lady?"

The Herald buried her face in her hands and mumbled something unintelligible.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I asked Cullen about his sex life!" Lady Trevelyan groaned, her crimson cheeks visible even in the shadows under the desk.

Josephine had to call upon all her diplomatic training not to betray a single flicker of an eyelid or a twitch of the mouth that showed how close to laughter she was.

She smoothed her hands down her skirt. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

"We were just talking," Lady Trevelyan said, "about the war, and templars, and what it takes to become one. Then I don't know what happened but I just... blurted out this question about vows of celibacy and if he had taken any and... oh I'm sooo embarrassed." She hid her face again.

"Well?"

Elanor peeked up. "Well what?"

"Did he give you an answer?"

The Herald's cheeks flamed red again. "Y-yes. He... he said that he hadn't taken any such vows."

Josephine smiled. "Well. There you are then."

"B-but I won't be able to look him in the face again after that," Elanor wailed. "I'll have to stay under this desk forever."

"My lady, you will do no such thing. Now come out of there," she coaxed.

Elanor slowly crawled out and stood, brushing dust off her knees.

Josephine put her hands on the taller woman's shoulders.

"You and Cullen are both adults and you're both professionals. You will do your jobs because you have to. And," she added, eyes sparkling, "because Cassandra will have several impolite things to say if you do not."

Elanor managed to laugh. "She _is_ rather terrifying at times. I thought for sure she would take my head off when I first woke up."

Josephine smiled. "There. See? You've returned to your normal state of equanimity. I've seen much worse cases and I think you and the Commander will be fine."

"'Worse... cases?'"

Josephine winked. "You'll figure it out eventually. Now shoo. I have some work to do."


	25. Faith

Another random Trevelyan ficlet

* * *

Cullen entered the Chantry, intending only to say a brief prayer and then return to work when he spied a glint of red hair from a pew near the back. There weren't many pews. They had been sacrificed for firewood or building materials for the incoming refugees. But both Roderick and Cassandra thought it important that the people have somewhere to come for a normal Chantry service. The normalizing effect of something like corporate worship was important to a world turned on its head.

It was late-well past the curfew Cassandra had imposed on the citizenry in Haven. But he supposed that didn't apply to the Herald of Andraste.

He walked past her row to one of the prayer stands, lit a candle with a taper, and bowed his head. He prayed for the strength to protect the Maker's children; for the knowledge and wisdom to lead where he must lead; and the courage to do what was right even when it was hard to know what right was.

Sometimes he wasn't sure if the Maker heard, but it did no harm to continue to pray. Sometimes faith was like a muscle; sore and resentful after being worked out. Other times it seemed as easy as swinging his sword through familiar forms.

Today was not one of the easy days.

Turning back around, he walked back down the aisle, glancing briefly at the Herald. Lady Trevelyan looked tired and troubled. As he looked at her, she bent over, as if in pain. He wondered if she hadn't quite recovered from the ordeal at the Breach. The day Cassandra had brought her in to be properly introduced was her first day awake and even then she had been pale and weak. It had been a couple of weeks since that day, though he'd barely seen her since she'd been away in the Hinterlands, trying to track down a Chantry sister helping some refugees. He'd heard there had been injuries after an unexpected run-in with battling templars and rebel mages.

Suddenly worried, he stepped closer. "Are you well, my lady?"

She looked up, blinking in surprise. "Yes, of course. I was just praying."

"Ah," he said, feeling awkward for intruding on her privacy. "I am sorry for interrupting. I had heard that someone was hurt."

She nodded. "Solas. But he'll be okay. Just a few days rest under Adan's 'gentle' care before we head back to the Hinterlands."

Cullen grinned at the thought of the grumpy alchemist. "I am glad to hear it was nothing serious. Excuse me, my lady. I should be going."

"Wait, Commander. Can I ask you something?"

"Of course, my lady." He hesitated, and then sat down next to her. It felt strange to loom over her while she sat.

She chewed her lower lip for a moment. "It has to do with a fringe group we encountered in the Hinterlands. A cult that sprung up to worship the Breach itself of all things."

Cullen nodded. "I read Cassandra's report. They seem harmless enough, especially now that you've turned their numbers into support for the Inquisition in that area. Cassandra says she asked them not to proselytize."

"Yes, but that's not what I'm worried about. When I spoke to their leader, she asked me if I really was the 'Herald of Andraste' that she'd heard so much of."

Lady Trevelyan paused. Cullen waited.

"I was honest with her," she said after a moment, meeting his eyes with a half-defiant, half-apologetic look. "I told her that I wasn't sure. She didn't seem to like that. I almost thought I would lose what little rapport we'd managed to establish." She frowned, looking up toward the sunburst banner at the front of the Chantry. "And I've been unsure ever since I first heard that title. Wouldn't you think," she said slowly, looking back at Cullen, "that if the Maker had chosen a person to do something, she would know it and could be certain?"

_Oh Maker,_ Cullen thought. He was silent for a moment, thinking of how best to reply, but she didn't seem to mind, watching him. He tore his mind away from her eyes, luminous in the candlelight of the Chantry, and thought.

"I think," he said at last, "that the Maker chooses many people to do His works and that they are not often aware that they have been chosen. Think, for example, of the Hero of Ferelden. Certainly saving thousands of people from the Blight is the Maker's work, but from Leliana says, the Hero had no notion of being specially chosen by the Maker to do her task."

"So," she said with half a grin, "you're saying that I _am_ the Herald of Andraste and I am _not_ at the same time?"

Cullen chuckled. "Sorry. I rather hamfisted my way through my thoughts there."

"No, I appreciate your honesty," she said. "I'd much rather be seen as Elanor Trevelyan, a woman who tried to do the right thing, rather than the Herald of Andraste. I don't know who what woman is."

"You may not have a choice," he offered gently.

"I know." Her lips lifted in a rueful half-grin. "Hence, my presence here in the middle of the night rather than in the day."

Cullen raised his eyebrows. "Are people bothering you?"

"No, they're not accosting me," she admitted. "But I was trying to light candles for my cousins..." Her voice faltered. "I was at the Conclave with them. They all died in the blast. And it was... troubling to have people staring and whispering when I was trying to have a moment to remember them."

Cullen didn't know what to say. So much had happened in the last two weeks he'd nearly forgotten that before the blast Lady Trevelyan would have just been a normal person and this person had not been given time to mourn properly.

"Come with me," he said, touching her arm and standing. "I want to show you something."

He led the way out of the main chamber of the Chantry, down a side hallway that went past the dormitories for the sisters and chanters. At the end was another stand with prayer candles. Only a couple were lit.

He paused in front of it. "This was placed back here for some of the elder sisters and brothers who no longer walk as well as they used to. You can come in through there," he gestured another door set into the side. "It's a servant's exit out of the side of the building. Most people don't come back here, so you can enter and leave undisturbed."

She reached out and squeezed his hand. "Thank you, Commander. I truly appreciate this."

"Cullen," he blurted, before better judgement could take control. "You can call me Cullen."

"Thank you, Cullen."

He was glad for the dim light of the corridor as his treacherous face bloomed with heat. "Ah, you're welcome, my lady. I am glad to be of assistance."

He was both relieved and disappointed when her hand removed from his, and he left as she turned to the candle stand, her mind already focused on her lost loved ones.

As he left the Chantry, he paused to light one more candle on the stand he'd paused at before. He said a quick prayer for Lady Trevelyan. Chosen by Andraste or not, she needed it. And perhaps that was as good a reminder as any that faith without action was no faith at all.

Feeling renewed of purpose, he returned to his quarters and prepared for the next day and what it would bring.


	26. Frostbite

**Prompt: You make my heart sing**

Spoilers for End of Act 1. More Cullen/Trevelyan. I can't stop!

* * *

It was over.

Cullen stared at the fire, not really seeing it, as Cassandra and Leliana argued behind him. He ought to put a stop to it. Ought to stand up and shame them for showing fear in front of group that had escaped Haven.

But he didn't. He stared at the fire and thought about how much they had lost... _who_ they had lost. He closed his eyes. It was easy to admit to himself now when hope was gone. He'd _liked_ her; he'd enjoyed seeing her smile because of something he'd said. He'd enjoyed seeing her go around Haven, showing genuine interest in everyone and everything. He'd enjoyed the sound of her voice singing hymns as she practiced lock picking in the Chantry basement.

And now she was dead and he would never be able to tell her that he missed her.

But there was a greater threat looming larger than even his aching heart. Could they win without her? What was to stop that... that _thing_ from tearing open another hole in the sky? They might raise another army with Cassandra as their figurehead, but without that mark to close rifts, they were little more than useless. Chaos would swallow the world.

Panic seized his gut and Cullen stood. He had to leave. He had to get back home, to Honnleath. His family... he had to get them to safety. But... his gaze turned back to the tents of the refugees of Haven, huddled together like a nest of mabari pups. He couldn't leave. Not yet. He had to at least see to them. They were his responsibility too.

Something stirred at the edge of the camp. A figure, stumbling through the snow. He frowned. Had one of Leliana's scouts returned? A flash of phosphorescent green shone through the flurries of snow and suddenly he was on his feet, shouting out to Cassandra and Leliana as he moved forward to meet her.

The Herald of Andraste fell to her knees in the snow just as he reached her.

"Thank the Maker. You're alive!" he said, grasping her arms. She slumped forward, unresponsive, and his alarm grew. Cassandra was at his side a second later, helping him lift her up.

"Build up the fire!" she yelled as they limped through the camp.

Leliana rushed to their side as they lay the unconscious Herald next to the fire. A stunned scout threw more logs onto the flames.

"She's soaked to the skin," the spymaster said, fingers already tugging at the Herald's boots. "We must get her clothes off. She's already suffering from hypothermia. The wet clothes will make it worse."

Cullen hesitated. He wanted to help—didn't want to leave her side—but... he couldn't help _undress_ her.

"Cullen!" Cassandra snapped. "Go get the healers and any mages that have been helping them."

Relieved, Cullen nodded and pushed through to the edge of the camp where the mages had sequestered themselves. "Healers!" he shouted. "I need healers!"

"I'm a healer," said an old woman with wintery-white hair, clutching a blanket around her shoulders as she emerged from a tent. "What's the problem?"

"The Herald has returned—," Cullen started to explain, heart beating against his ribs.

"She walked all this way in that blizzard?" The healer interrupted. "If she doesn't lose her toes it'll be a miracle. Let me get my staff..."

Cullen was relieved to see that the Herald had been undressed and wrapped in thick, cocooning blankets while he'd been gone. The fire had been built up, blazing a bright orange against the night sky. Mother Giselle stood by a small pot of water at the edge of the fire, handing Leliana a warm, wet cloth that steamed in the air. She laid it across the Herald's forehead. Cassandra held the Herald propped up slightly, gently tipping a cup of some steaming liquid to the woman's mouth. The Herald herself seemed barely conscious, her eyes swollen shut.

"Let me through," said the mage.

Cullen hovered in the background of the crowd that was beginning to gather, just barely able to see the white-haired mage and her glowing staff.

"She will live," said the mage. There was a collective sigh of relief and a scattering of applause. "And she's somehow managed to escape frostbite."

"The worst of the danger has passed," Cassandra said, looking over the crowd. "Return to your tents. She will need to rest."

Cullen wordlessly helped shift a few things aside in another tent to make room for a cot. He carried the Herald from her place by the fire into the tent, out of the wind. If his fingers brushed against her cheek, he was sure they would all think it an accident.

Mother Giselle patted his arm as he ducked out. "We will see to her now, Commander. Go, get some rest while you can."

He shook his head. "She'll need something hot to eat when she awakens. I'll start something at the fire."

"An excellent idea, Commander."

As he sat by the fireside cutting dried vegetables for a soup, he found himself smiling.

Hope. It seemed to buoy him from within. That nightmarish creature had destroyed Haven, but hope... hope was again singing a song in his heart. Perhaps they could do this after all.


	27. Prompt: Unconventional gifts

**Prompt: Unconventional gifts**

* * *

"You're kidding me," Cullen said, looking at the courier, then down at the... gift.

"No, ser," replied the courier. "I got my orders from King Alistair himself."

Josephine, sensing an impending diplomatic disaster, smoothly stepped into the conversation. "A distinguished lineage, I think you said?"

"Yes, ma'am. Sired by the Hero of Ferelden's own mabari a little over two months ago. Pups are quite in demand among the Fereldan nobility. It speaks of His Majesty's respect for the actions of the Inquisition."

The "gift" finished scratching his ears and began to attack Cullen's boots with happy little barks. The courier brightened.

"Ah, looks like he's imprinted on you already, ser. Congratulations!"

Cullen glanced helplessly up at the Inquisitor, who was trying not to laugh, and then over at Josephine. The ambassador's cheek dimpled in a grin, but she stepped forward with a polite smile for the courier.

"You must be tired after such a long journey," she said. "We have quarters for you if you want to rest, and I will provide you a ticket for free meals at the tavern during the duration of your stay."

Gift delivered, the courier allowed himself to be corralled out of the office to one of the stewards waiting in the hall outside.

"I can't have a puppy!" Cullen said as soon as the door closed behind Josephine as she re-entered her office. The puppy bounced around Cullen's feet, yipping excitedly.

"You are not returning a gift from the King of Ferelden," Josephine said sternly, bending down to scratch the pup behind the ears.

"But I don't have the time," Cullen said, looking distressed, as the puppy wagged his stumpy little tail and gazed up at him with canine adoration.

"Mabari are nearly self-sufficient, from what I understand," the Inquisitor said, smiling. "And it's not as if you need to provide food for him yourself. Just tell the kitchen staff of the new addition and they'll have someone deliver scraps."

Cullen sighed. "Shouldn't this have been a gift for you?" he asked, glancing at the Inquisitor.

She shook her head, smiling. "If it was intended for me, the courier would have said so."

Josephine cocked her head. "What is wrong, Cullen? Do you not like dogs?"

"No, I do! I... well, I've wanted a mabari since I was a boy... It's just... now? Of all times?"

The Inquisitor took a step closer to him, but mindful of Josie's gleaming eyes, did nothing more. "Cullen, if not now, then when?"

Cullen bent at the knees to look at the puppy, which sat on its hindquarters, head cocked.

"Well, what do you say?"

The puppy bounded forward and enthusiastically began licking Cullen's face. He chuckled and stood. "Guess I'd better speak to the kitchen staff straight away."

He nodded to the Inquisitor and Josie and walked out of the office, the puppy at his heels.

"That," said Josie, once they were alone, "is almost too adorable for words!"


	28. Prompt: I've survived worse

Sappy, yes, but dangit, this is my headcanon until DLC proves otherwise! Spoilers of course.

**Prompt: I've survived worse**

* * *

King Alistair's wife had been missing for too long. Gossip made rounds in the court like a snowball rolling down a mountain, picking up dirt and twigs and other filth the longer it rolled.

He kept them at bay as best he could. All the court knew at the moment was that the "Hero" was dealing with Grey Warden business. It was a practiced move that even Leliana might have been proud of. It reminded the court subtly that the Hero had saved their ungrateful lives while also holding a kernel of truth.

At least, he hoped it was the truth. She'd told him that she was leaving to speak to Avernus about the Calling. But she'd been gone so long that she could have made the trip to Soldier's Peak and back to Denerim several times over now.

And no word from her. Not a single letter. And then there was this whole Breach madness to deal with. He dearly wanted his wife there for his own sanity and comfort. To ensure that she was safe... to have the benefit of her counsel as he dealt with foolish mages and stubborn templars... and the growing power of the Inquisition in Orlais.

But the Inquisition was a smaller worry. He had not known Commander Cullen personally, but he knew him by reputation and Leliana, whatever her faults, would keep a careful eye on this Free Marcher woman who was the titular head. But still, he would have liked to have Elissa there to talk through the decisions that must be made.

Days turned to weeks. Weeks into months. He missed her with every breath... but he almost became used to the absence.

So when the Queen of Fereldan turned up in his bed one morning (the morning he was supposed to hear about the decision for the new Divine), he might be forgiven for falling out of bed with a startled yelp that brought the guards rushing into the Royal bedchamber.

"It's me!" The woman in the bed said in annoyance as the guards brought swords to bear on her. "Good grief, Ronald, I kissed your baby at his naming ceremony."

Ronald the guard blanched. "Y-your Majesty! I... I did not expect... You've..." He trailed off, glancing at Alistair who was still sitting on the floor, dumbstruck. His fellow guard nudged him with an elbow and, with hurried bows, they both left and shut the door behind them.

Silence fell into the room. Elissa looked over at him on the floor with a smile. "Are you going to stay there or are you going to greet your wife properly?"

Alistair found his voice and slowly stood to his feet. "You've been gone for months and you just show up in the middle of the night?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Like I've always done? I didn't want to wake you."

Alistair paused. She was right. That's what her habit was, when dealing with Grey Warden business that took her out of the city.

"But I haven't seen you in..." he said a little bit plaintively.

"I know, darling," she said soothingly, crawling to the edge of the bed to stand and wrap her arms around him. "I've missed you too..."

And then they were too busy showing each other how much they missed the other for Alistair to demand an explanation.

Sometime much later, Alistair freed his arm from beneath his wife's head and propped himself up to look at her.

"Where were you?"

She frowned prettily and he had to stop himself from kissing her again and once again losing the thread of his thoughts.

"You got my letters right?"

Alistair blinked. "Letters?"

"I wrote—twice at least. Once, when I was leaving Soldier's Peak and the second, not that long ago, after Leliana's people managed to find me."

"I never got your letters, love."

"But..." She growled in frustration and slipped out of bed, making a distracting image as she crouched by her bag, which he could see now that she had just tossed on the floor. "Here! I made copies." She said triumphantly, coming back to the bed and sitting on it to hand Alistair the letters. He opened them up, frowning as he recognized the code they'd established a few years ago. To anyone that intercepted the letters, they would appear as simple, domestic news between a husband and wife. To Alistair, however, he could see that she was reporting on the latest research that Avernus had uncovered.

He lowered the letter. "I never received these," he said. "Who did you send as a courier?"

"A Crow apprentice." At his incredulous look, she shrugged. "Zevran owes me. I figured them trustworthy enough, but apparently not."

"He could have fallen foul of bandits or off a mountain," Alistair pointed out.

"We should send some people to check," she agreed. Then she smiled at him. "I'm surprised you worried so much. I've survived worse than a little trip across Thedas."

He couldn't resist. He pulled her forward and kissed her again, softly this time without the desperation of moments before. "I will always worry."

She touched his cheek. "And I will always return to you."


	29. Prompt: Hypocrisy

**Prompt: Hypocrisy**

* * *

Elanor Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste, found Dorian at one of the lonely tables in a dim corner on the second floor of the tavern. He gazed broodingly at his drink—some pale Tevinter wine—while a serving girl hovered nearby pretending to wipe a table but peeking at him with obvious longing.

Elanor had to bite her lip to keep from smiling. She'd best put a word in Bull's ear. Perhaps he'd be able to turn her head toward a more productive interest.

When the girl looked up and saw her, she bobbed a quick curtsey and set down her rag.

"Drink, Your Worship?"

She shrugged. "Whatever he's having," she said, gesturing at Dorian's drink.

At that he looked up with a snort. "Will the Herald's drink include the spit too?"

Elanor's eyes widened. "They spit in your drink?"

"And sprinkle sand in my food," he said with a mockery of his usual cheer.

Elanor glared at the girl. "I want a word with the cook. Now. And a fresh, unspoiled drink for my friend here."

"Right away, Your Worship," the girl gulped, and scrambled away.

"Can I sit down?" Elanor asked after a moment, when Dorian returned to staring at his undrinkable drink.

He shrugged one leather-clad shoulder. "It's your castle."

"Dorian—"

"Are you going to yell at me again?"

Elanor bit her lip. "No, I came to apologize." She sat down and took a breath. "Look, the last time we spoke..."

"You mean when you lectured me."

"Dorian—"

"Go on, go on. Sorry for interrupting." He waved a hand gracefully for her to continue.

"We talked about slavery and words got heated," Elanor said,. "I wanted to say that I'm sorry. I don't like arguing with you. Especially when you're right about some things."

A smile spread across his face in a crescent of gleaming white.

"Could you say that again, my dear Herald?"

Elanor stuck out her tongue at him. "I said you were right about some things. Not all of them. I will never agree that Tevinter's system of slavery is good, no matter how many examples you give me of well-treated slaves."

He began to look sullen again, as if bracing himself for a tirade.

"But you are right," she continued, "in that elves in other parts the world are not treated well and freedom, such as it is, is limited because of prejudice." She paused. "In short, Dorian, you pointed out my hypocrisy and I was embarrassed and angry about it."

Dorian's smile was small and wry. "There you go again."

She blinked. "What?"

"You always manage to surprise me... and here I was feeling morally superior to all you southern barbarians, and then you—Andraste's chosen—have to go and humble yourself like this."

Elanor frowned. "I'm not doing this to get praise. I'm trying to show you that I was at fault-"

"I know, my dear." He reached across the table and kissed the back of her hand. "And that makes you remarkable."

She snatched her hand back, feeling her face warm. "Flatterer."

"Yes, my dear, but only because you flatter me, by being genuine."

The waitress arrived at the table with fresh drinks, which Dorian examined with a critical eye before dismissing the girl with a wave.

"Now," Dorian said, sipping from his drink with a satisfied air, "we come to the important part of this conversation."

Elanor felt a thrill of foreboding at the sparkle in the mage's eye. "Which is?"

"How exactly did your date with your strapping young templar go?" He waggled his eyebrows. "I want to hear all of the details."

"I have a... a sudden appointment I-I just remembered," Elanor said, blushing a furious red as she stumbled away from her table. "Josie wanted to go over some... some thing... nobles... I have to go!"


	30. Prompt: Unusual decorations

**Prompt: Unusual decorations**

* * *

Lady Trevelyan walked into Josephine's office one afternoon to find the normally placid ambassador speaking in a terse voice to an elf at her desk. A box with a bit of packing paper sticking out of it sat on the floor between them. Elanor grinned. Something good had to be up to get Josie in a pinch. She arrived at the desk just in time to see the elf - crimson up to her pointed ears - bow, apologize, and leave the room with hurried steps.

"What's going on Josie? I've never seen you so angry."

Josephine jumped, one hand on her chest. "Inquisitor! I didn't see you there. Oh it's nothing, it's..." She slapped one hand on her desk in frustration. "It's horrible! The dresses, Inquisitor! The beautiful gown I had ordered especially made for you! It was going to be a masterpiece of exquisite taste and functionality. The skirts would pull away at need so you would have optimum movement. Your daggers would have been secured on your legs. It was going to be lovely."

Elanor felt a twinge of apprehension. "'Was?'" she repeated. "What happened?"

Josie knelt next to the box, lifting out a partially unwrapped parcel. It was a crimson uniform with gold epaulets and a sky-blue sash.

"This was to be Cullen's suit," Josie said, her voice still terse. "Regal, yes?"

"Yes," Elanor agreed, feeling herself blush as she imagined him in it. "What's the problem?"

Josie lifted out each parcel, unwrapping them one by one to reveal...

"Maker," Elanor said, eyes wide. "They're all the same."

"Seven!" Josie wailed. "The tailor gave me seven uniforms. And the ball at the Winter Palace is tomorrow, leaving no time to get replacements. I..." she sighed. "I suppose it could be worse. Perhaps this will even make a good statement. All of us dressed alike. It will be a strong show of solidarity, and it will certainly set us apart from the usual crowd of sycophants... Inquisitor! This is no time to laugh!"

Elanor clapped a hand over her mouth, but giggles escaped anyway. "But Josie..." She lifted her braid from her shoulder, wiggling it in front of the ambassador's nose.

The ambassador's eyes widened with horror. "Red... hair! Andraste preserve me... I did not even think... and Leliana too!" She stumbled around her desk and sank into her chair, head in her hands. "Why didn't I order blue uniforms?" she moaned.

Elanor was trying to comfort Josie and not laugh at the same time when Leliana walked in. The other redhead in the room took the news in stride.

"Calm down, Josie. We will be far from the worst dressed people there and part of fashion is confidence. If we don't act like the uniforms are an accident, then no one will suspect. In fact, I all but guarantee that the Inquisitor will cause a fashion sensation among the nobility of Orlais. I would bet money on crimson being a new fashion must within a month."

Josie finally calmed down enough and went to go order a cup of tea from the kitchens to soothe the remainder of her frazzled nerves.

Leliana and Elanor were left by the open box of freshly tailored uniforms. They looked at each other with wry grins.

"I suppose we shall have to bear up as best we can, no?"

"It could be worse," Elanor agreed, fingering her braid. "The uniforms could be pink."


	31. Prompt: We will never be afraid again

**Prompt: We will never be afraid again**

Note: This is another Thorn Adaar story. It makes a little more sense with the context of my previoius story ("Valo-kas part 2") as a backdrop. Spoilers for the Iron Bull romance.

* * *

"Inquisitor!"

Thorn rushed past the people blindly calling out to her, clenching her fingers lest crackling magic fling loose without her command.

"Inquisitor, are you—?"

The words cut off as she slammed the door behind her. Why were there so many people around when all she wanted was a moment's peace to just think about... what he had...

_Ropes cutting into her wrists. Magic an empty void in her mind._

Panic made her heart race, and she ran out into the fresh air. Better.

But people were beginning to stare again. Prickles on her skin...

Thorn climbed one of the towers until she'd reached the top, leaning against the ramparts and breathing deep until the crisp mountain air scoured away the panic and darkness of her fear.

"He scared you," said a voice behind her.

Thorn whipped around, but it was only Cole, sitting on the edge of the rampart. At his back, a thousand feet of empty air. She swallowed her queasiness at the thought and slid down so that solid rock was at her own back.

"Yes," she said, not bothering to lie. Cole would see that too anyway.

He blinked, his large, liquid eyes almost doe-like in the shadowy place under the brim of his hat.

"Ropes that burn, magic choked off. They hate you for what you are, hunted you like an animal. Would you ever see your mother again?" He paused. "When was that?"

Thorn swallowed hard. "Qunari agents tracked me down when I was a teenager. They almost had me. My master, the one who taught me magic, saved my life at the cost of his own." She rubbed her wrists. She could still see faint scars there if she looked hard enough.

"The Iron Bull didn't mean to scare you," Cole said. "He was trying to have fun."

Thorn closed her eyes. "I know. I thought I could... but those ropes..." Her throat closed in panic and she had to breathe deeply through her nose again to clear the fear.

"You scared him too," the spirit boy said softly.

Thorn raised her head. "What?"

"Magic burns, freezes, itches, kills... summons demons. Aim for the mage first before the demons come. Will he have to kill this Herald if she becomes an abomination? Lips unscarred; horns beautifully intact. Tal-Vashoth. Qunari would have neutered her. Her magic is hard and light and soft and fierce. He trusts her at his back, at his side, leading the way. He likes it when she leads. Better view from the back. Arriving in her quarters. Shouldn't be nervous, but will it be different with a mage?"

Thorn bit her lip. "I didn't mean to hurt him. I just... reacted on instinct. I panicked." Her horns hit the wall as she leaned her head back. "Dammit."

When she looked up, Cole had disappeared.

#

Bull wasn't in her room. Not that she had really expected him to stay after she'd blasted him with magic and run away. One of the silken bindings was still tied to the bedpost. She looked at it with revulsion, trying to swallow the echos of past fear. Finally, she untied it and tucked it into her pocket.

It was never hard to find Bull when she wanted to. He stood out too much for people to simply ignore him. He was sparring with Cassandra in a secluded corner of Skyhold's courtyard. Normally, their bouts attracted a crowd, but it was late in the day and everyone would likely eating dinner around now.

"If you're not going to put your heart into it," Cassandra was saying to the large qunari as Thorn walked up, "then I'm going to go eat something and let you hit the dummy."

Bull picked himself off the ground. "I'm not done yet," he growled, then stopped, seeing Thorn. Her heart gave a sick lurch when she saw the apprehension in his gaze.

"Can I cut in?" Thorn asked Cassandra.

The dark-haired human glanced from her to Bull, then shrugged. "Fine by me. I am getting hungry anyway."

"Rematch tomorrow, Seeker!" Bull called at her retreating back.

"I shouldn't have used my magic against you," she said once Cassandra was out of earshot. "You scared me and I reacted on instinct. I'm sorry."

He looked at her a moment and she wondered if he was watching her the way a Ben-Hassrath would, measuring truth and lies, weaknesses and strengths.

"'Katoh,'" he said. "That's all you had to say. I would have stopped. And now, I think we're done here." He dropped the wooden shield he was holding and turned to leave.

"Ben-Hassrath tied me up, Bull. I wasn't just shooting magic at you out of spite. I was... trapped in a memory."

He turned back to her. "Tell me."

So she did. She told him of her childhood as a wandering apostate, never belonging anywhere, always on the lookout for suspicious templars. She told him of joining her first mercenary company and how some Ben-Hassrath viddethari had hunted her through the Free Marches, then trapped her, binding her arms and legs, and shackling her magic.

"Ah," he said, some of the harsh lines on his face softening. "You should have said something. I wouldn't have suggested that kind of play if I knew it would trigger a bad memory. I get them sometimes too. Mostly nightmares these days."

Thorn crossed her arms. "I don't want to be coddled, Bull. I didn't know something like that would happen. I like you a lot. I thought we could have fun together, so I was willing." She swallowed hard and brought out the silken cord from her pocket, offering both of her hands, wrists locked together, toward him. "I don't want to be afraid any more. If... if _this_ is what you're used to... I trust you."

Surprise flickered across his face, and he put his hand gently on hers, lowering her outstretched arms. He tossed the silken cord away into the grass behind him, taking her chin in his hands.

"I don't need that. I need you." His mouth came down on hers eagerly, but there was a question there too, waiting for a response.

She locked her arms around his neck and wrapped her legs around his waist, grinning into the kiss as she heard him grunt in surprise.

"Want to erase a bad memory in my quarters?" she murmured then yelped in helpless laughter as Bull heaved her up and over his shoulder, taking off running in the direction of the stairwell that led to the main hall.

#

In a shadowy corner of Skyhold, Cole smiled.


	32. Prompt: In the beginning

**Prompt: In the beginning**

**A/N: Spoilers for Solas!**

* * *

In the beginning, he indulged her.

He shouldn't have. But it was hard not to respond to her flirting. Harmless, he thought at the time. An exchange of playful words; nothing more.

In his youth he might have pounced immediately, devouring her pouting lips with his own, but he was older now, and wiser he hoped. He held back, remained cautious, mindful of his precarious position. No one would know what he truly was, but his outward appearance as an elven apostate was enough. Prudence and patience were key if he was to regain the Orb.

It was her seeking him out in the Fade that undid his careful defenses. How had she done it? He'd rarely met mortals who dreamed so vividly. And yet, here she was, smiling and at ease... with him. And then she was close, touching his arm, cupping his face, kissing him with a sweetness he'd never dreamed possible.

He couldn't help himself. A ghost of his wild youth echoed in the way he pulled her back for more, pressing her body against his, mouth to mouth, then tongue to tongue.

He shouldn't have. Land and Sea, he shouldn't have. But... she was lovely, smiling, _willing_, and he had been alone for so very, very long.

"What are you thinking about?" A soft voice breaks him out of his reverie and he blinks as her clear, jewel-bright eyes come into focus. They are sitting on a ridge just overlooking their campsite. Night has settled over the desert, and they had retired to watch the brilliant stars come out.

"You, _ma vhenan_," he says, happy when he can speak truth to her. He does not like to kiss her when his mouth is recently stained by lies.

"Sweet talker," she murmurs, kissing him gently, then resting her head on his shoulder. His arms steals around her waist, holding tight.

He has a horrible feeling that she will slip from his grasp when he is not watching.


	33. Prompt: Beauty and Pain

**Prompt: Beauty and pain**

* * *

"You seem deep in thought, Seeker."

Cassandra turned to see Solas walk over, bending between the exposed roots of the gigantic tree to strip the leaves off a fragrant plant. Basil? The elven apostate had a knack for flavoring their dinner with herbs that Cassandra would have overlooked as weeds.

"I was just thinking about this place... the Emerald Graves," she said, resting a gauntleted hand against the trunk of the tree. Early evening light streamed down through the canopy over their small campsite. The Inquisitor didn't want to reach Fairbanks' camp at night in unfamiliar territory, so they had stopped early to make supper.

Cassandra looked up at the tree, feeling a sense of reverent awe that she normally only felt in the Grand Cathedral. "I hope that the Temple of Sacred Ashes or Haven, will be as beautiful as this place some day."

Solas straightened, leaves in one hand, and raised an eyebrow. "You wish those places to be filled with the thousands of unmarked graves of your people?"

She let her hand fall from the tree and bent to pick up the dead branches she had originally stopped to get.

"No," she said. "I wish for life to stand in defiance of death, to renew what was a place of pain into a place of beauty."

She walked past him, carrying the firewood, and only when she was several feet away did she hear his voice, soft and mournful: "I wish for that too."


	34. Prompt: Nobody's fault but mine

**Prompt: Nobody's fault but mine**

Note: These dorks will be the ruin of me.

* * *

"Inquisitor?"

Elanor Trevelyan looked up from her desk, two fat tears falling from her chin to the papers in front of her.

Cassandra, looking up at her from the stairwell, hesitated. "I can come back..."

"No, please," Elanor swiped at her tears, and scraped her chair back. "What do you need?"

Cassandra looked a little uncomfortable. "Is something... wrong?"

Elanor pressed her lips together, fingers twisting the end of her braid that hung over her shoulder. "You... knew Cullen before, right?"

Cassandra's expression flashed from irritation to discomfort, and then resignation. It might have been funny if Elanor wasn't so distraught. The older woman sighed. "A little. I knew him by reputation before Kirkwall, and we became better acquainted in the chaos after the Grand Cleric was murdered. You already know how he joined the Inquisition."

"I... think I did something... I made him angry and I don't know what I did," Elanor blurted, feeling her throat tighten again.

Cassandra made a disgusted sound and climbed the rest of the stairs to sit on the settee that faced the rest of the room, hands on her knees. "Well you'd better get it out of your system. We need you functional if we're going to leave for the Exalted Plains tomorrow."

So Elanor sat on the other end of the settee, knees to her chest and told Cassandra about a recent mission to close Fade Rifts in a nearby village.

"It went well," Elanor explained, fiddling with her handkerchief. "Until we were ambushed by a group of red templars on the way out of town, but I wasn't really hurt—"

Cassandra narrowed her eyes. "That wasn't in your report!"

Elanor shrugged. "It was only two of them! Couriers, I think. And it wasn't a big deal." She winced suddenly and gingerly lowered her feet from the settee as she put a hand to her side. "When Cullen found out about it..." She bit her lip. "I didn't want Cullen to worry," she said softly. "He shoulders too much as it is."

Cassandra crossed her arms over her chest, her intense gaze not quite a glare, but close. "First of all," she said, "you need to put every incident in your mission report, no matter how minor. Leliana's people thrive on this sort of thing. Information about red templars in any location could have larger implications we cannot see. Secondly," she said, her gaze becoming more focused. Elanor felt briefly like a bug wriggling on a pin. "This is really none of my business, but you are both good people and if you harm each other, it will fall to Josephine, Leliana, and I to pick up the pieces... Do you love the Commander?"

Red suffused her cheeks. "I... well, yes..."

"Then act like it," Cassandra snapped. "Quit treating him like a child that needs to remain in ignorance for his own safety. He is a grown man who has faced horrors you have never known, and he has emerged the stronger for it. Respect that his desire for knowledge of your injury is not over-protectiveness or a desire to control you. Love desires knowledge: intimacy. And, no, I am not referring to _that_ kind of intimacy. If you cannot share even a 'minor incident' with him, how are you going to share anything deeper?"

Elanor's hands flew to her mouth. "I... I'm sorry, I didn't realize..."

"Maker's breath, don't apologize to me!"

"Right!" Elanor sprang from the couch, jumping over the balcony and landing in the stairwell. "I'll talk with you later, Cassandra!" she said, her steps rapidly fading away.

#

Elanor found Cullen in his usual pose, bent over his desk in his office. She waited for a courier to leave, then closed the door behind her. He looked up at the sound, his face guarded.

"I'm sorry," she blurted out, irritated that the tears she'd had under control the whole way to his office decided to leak out at that very moment. "I know I should have told you, but I didn't want you to worry, but I made you worry anyway and it was wrong and I'm sorry, and it was just two templars, and I'm not hurt very bad, and..." The rest of her burbling apology was muffled as Cullen crossed the space between them and gathered her in his arms.

"It's alright," he said, his hands strong and warm against her back. "I'm not angry. I shouldn't have badgered you—"

She shook her head, rubbing her cheek against his fur paldrons. "No, this is my fault. Don't try to accept blame where there is none."

"I'm not used to this," she admitted a moment later, pulling back a bit so she could look at him. She felt quieter now, soothed by the strength of his arms holding her tight. "I've..." she blushed. "I've never been... with someone before. I was supposed to be dedicated to the Chantry, so my father always rebuffed potential suitors." She bit her lip. "I don't know how this whole thing works. So if I do something stupid, like that, you might have to tell me."

Cullen thumbed a loose strand of hair against her cheek. "Well, we may have to learn together," he said, his crooked smile making her weak at the knees. "A templar stationed at a Circle doesn't exactly learn a lot about relationships of this kind either." He sobered a bit. "Truly, I am sorry too. Instead of stomping around like a bear, I should have attempted to speak with you, to explain." One of his hands hovered over her side. "Does it hurt?"

"It's just a scratch," she assured him. "Solas had a barrier on me too quickly for the arrow to do more damage than that."

"I would like to hear about it, if you've the time. The whole mission, I mean," he said, glancing around his office as if realizing too late that he had no chairs.

"I know a quiet table in the tavern," she said hesitantly. "Would you... want to meet there? We could even make a habit of it... If you have time, I mean."

Cullen's smile widened, and she had to inhale a sharp breath at the look in his eyes. "I would love that."


	35. Prompt: I'm glad it's you

**Prompt: I'm glad it's you**

Spoilers for end-game Solas stuff.

* * *

Against her will, ignoring her exhaustion, her hunger, and her fear, her left hand rose, fingers spread.

The Anchor crackled with power and she gasped. It hadn't felt like that in years, not since the Breach was a fresh crack in the sky.

Beside her, but too far away to touch was Solas... or at least the man she'd once known as Solas. Eyes that had once looked on her with tender admiration were now cold and distant. Hands that had once touched her body with warm expertise were raised now in a wordless spell that bade her move without conscious action.

She'd fought him all the way here, to the still vacant ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, but it had done no good.

A tear slipped from her eye and fell down her cheek. Something flickered on Not-Solas's face.

"I'm glad it's you," she whispered through dry lips. Not-Solas paused and for once his eyes focused on her face and not the mark on her hand.

"I thought..." she said, locking on to his eyes. "I thought that taking the Well was worth the risk... but when I met Flemeth, I was terrified. I had nightmares after that, of a dragon with her eyes coming for me." She laughed, a cracked, broken sound. "But it was you instead." Tears spilled out of both eyes now. "I am... glad."

His eyes softened and his hand raised again.

"I am sorry, ma vhenan. I didn't want to do this either."

The Anchor exploded.


	36. Prompt: Saving everyone from monsters

**Prompt: Saving everyone from giant monsters**

Note: Cullen/Trevelyan fluff. Also inspired by the most recent Cullen/Trevelyan fanart by _siriusdraws_ on tumblr.

* * *

The Inquisitor nodded sleepily in her saddle as the gates of Skyhold loomed out of the cold, dark morning. At least, she thought it was morning. It was far too dark out to be sure of anything. All she knew was that she hadn't felt well in days, and she really wanted her own pillow beneath her head tonight.

The portcullis raised as she yawned, but her horse knew the way home, not needing her prodding to go through the gate and find the stables.

"I'll take him, Your Worship," said a sleepy-eyed stableboy as she slid off the saddle.

"Thanks, Ryan."

The cool night air and the motion of her legs woke her up a bit more as she made her way through the darkness of Skyhold's halls. She paused at the door to her quarters, then decided to check on her daughter. It had only been a week's trip this time, but each time she returned, it felt like an age had passed.

She gently pushed open the door and then had to muffle a sudden laugh with her hand.

Her daughter's crib was large, intended to be used by a baby up through her toddler years, but it was most assuredly not meant for a grown man. Her husband lay awkwardly wedged in the crib, one arm hanging out at what couldn't be a comfortable angle and his legs dangled over the end. Curled up against his chest was their daughter Lizzie, a thumb stuck between her lips, soft whorls of golden hair floating around her face.

Elanor reached down and gathered the baby in her arms. The little girl was sound asleep and did nothing more than curl tighter against her. Elanor breathed in her little girl scent of grass and fresh air, kissing the soft, warm cheek.

Cullen stirred the moment Elanor lifted Lizzie away, his mouth frowning even as his arms twitched, trying to find the object he'd just been holding. Elanor smoothed his hair away from his forehead with one hand, still cradling Lizzie to her chest.

"It's me," she whispered as Cullen's eyes opened, blinking. She kissed his temple. "Wouldn't go to sleep without you again?"

Cullen yawned and groaned softly as he unfolded his body from the confines of the crib. "She misses you," he said, rubbing his eyes as he stood. "Harder to get her to sleep by herself when you're gone." He pulled her forward, careful not to jostle the still sleeping child, and kissed her. "Glad you're home safe. Everything go okay?"

"Yes." Elanor leaned over the crib and put Lizzie back down, tucking in the blanket around the little girl. Cullen retrieved a stuffed mabari toy from the far end of the crib and set it next to their daughter. They both exited the nursery and went into their bedroom just opposite. Elanor began to peel away the travel-stained clothes she'd been wearing, and Cullen found a clean nightshirt for her.

"Cassandra merely needed someone to talk to that doesn't grovel in her presence," Elanor continued, crawling into bed beside her husband, grateful when he pulled her against him, burying his face in her neck. "I think she still misses us."

"She should... visit... more often," Cullen said, and she could tell that he was close to sleep.

She twisted in his arms so she was facing him. "Cullen?"

"Mm?"

"I talked with Cassandra... and she agrees. I think it's time to start disbanding the Inquisition."

His eyes blinked open. "If you think it's right, love."

She propped herself up on an elbow. "No protests from the Commander of its armies?"

"We saved everyone from all the giant monsters a long time ago," he said through a yawn. "Thedas once stood and walked on its own like a big girl. Once we were needed because Corypheus brought everyone to their knees. But that's over with. Time we cut the leading strings."

Elanor smiled with relief and snuggled back down beside him. "Good... because I'd been thinking..." She trailed off.

"Thinking what?"

"That as much as I love Skyhold... I'm not sure it's the best place to raise a child... or two."

"Probably not..." He paused, looking at her. "Two," he repeated slowly.

She kissed him. "Two," she confirmed, and the overwhelming joy lighting up his face was almost too much to look at.

It was good to be home.


	37. Prompt: Sanctuary

**Prompt: Sanctuary**

* * *

He's missed dinner again. Cullen stands from his desk at the insistent rumble of his stomach. He thinks he has an apple somewhere... His leg seizes in sudden pain, and he grips the edge of the desk with white knuckles.

He's done it again, pushed himself too far. Hadn't he promised her just last week that he would take more care? But there are always things that need done: an army to manage, incoming recruits to train, patrols to set up, and a growing network of fortresses across Orlais to maintain. The enormity of the responsibility hits him like a pommel to his head. A hitch in his breathing, a sudden swoop in his gut. _Too much, too far._

Inhaling several deep breaths to quell the anxiety, Cullen deliberately sets aside the papers he was looking at only a moment before, pulls on his cloak, and limps outside. It is cold in the mountains at night, and he misses the fur paldrons at his neck. But the shock of the crisp air is needed, clearing the cobwebs of work from his mind. The evening patrol salutes as he walks past, but he spares them only a nod. His reluctance earlier to leave work is now a need pulsing through his veins.

_Get away, get away_.

He pauses on the stairs leading from the battlements to the tavern. Even from here he can hear uproarious laughter and a more distant hum of background chatter. Fingers grip the stone, rough against his fingertips. He doesn't think he can handle the crowd tonight. Sometimes it is a relief to sit with his men, or the Chargers, to quaff a pint and share camaraderie. But not tonight. He doesn't think he can stand that mix of awkwardness from his soldiers who don't know quite how to socialize with their commander, or the teasing about "loosening up" from Varric or Bull.

Tonight, he'd just rather be... Cullen.

He steps down the rest of the stairs, but skirts the tavern door and the warm, ale-scented light that spills out of it. Up, up, up the main staircase, another nod to the soldiers stationed at the doors, and then the main hall. He pauses in the quiet. Dinner has ended several hours before and the tables are empty, the crumbs swept away. He wonders idly just how many servants Skyhold employs. Perhaps he ought to find out one of these days just who cleans up after the buzz of activity during the day.

He rubs the back of his neck as he approaches the door that leads to the East Wing—empty but for _her_ quarters. What excuse did he have? He's never visited her before... would she expect...? Warmth blossoms on his face. _Calm, calm_. He wants her; Maker, he _wants_ her, but not like this, not to use for his own selfish comfort. If they ever... well, it would be a different time. Not when he's shaking from the lack of lyrium and wanting to claw his fingers through his brain to rip out the threads of darkness.

He blinks and finds himself at her door. He's somehow walked through the passage of the East Wing and now he's here.

He should leave.

Instead his hand raises and taps against the door. Part of him half hopes she's asleep already and won't hear, but almost immediately, he hears a cheerful "Door's open!"

Latch opening under his fingers, cool metal, wood sanded smooth. He can smell her the moment he steps through. Faint lilac overlaid with something more immediate. Indeed, he sees as he walks up the last set of stairs to her enormous open room that she is resting on the settee, a book in one hand, a cup of tea steaming on the table next to her.

"Cullen," she says, smiling, eyes bright with pleasure. She unfolds her legs from the settee and walks over him, hesitantly reaching out for his hands. This... whatever is is between them is still new, still uncertain sometimes. They have not quite reached the rhythm of couples who know where they fit into each other's lives.

But like that first moment atop the battlements, Cullen feels no hesitation in bringing his lips to hers. Not quite as desperate as that first kiss, this kiss is both reassurance and affirmation, a greeting, and she is not blushing afterwards but her eyes are warm, her smile not as shy as before. He feels a knot loosen somewhere in his chest.

"I... wanted to see you," he says lamely. She searches his face, and he has the feeling that despite the newness of their relationship, she can see straight into his soul at times.

"I'm reading a book," she says after a moment. "Do you want me to read it to you?"

He nods and they arrange themselves on the couch. She is warm against him, her hair tickling his chin.

"They say coin never sleeps, but anyone who's walked the patrol of Hightown market at midnight might disagree..."

She somehow uses one hand to hold the book, flipping the page awkwardly with her thumb. The other is twined up with his hand, not squeezing, just... safe; secure. Listening to the cadence of her words, feeling the warmth of her nearness, Cullen lets out a tiny sigh and the frantic nattering going on in the back of his head finally quiets down.

He's learning to heed his body and its new demands. Too much, too far today. Perhaps tomorrow he'll do better. But for now, there is tonight, her words a soothing litany in his ears, and that deeper knowing behind her eyes when he couldn't voice his own complaints.

His arm tightens around her for a brief moment, and he can hear the smile in her words as she continues to read.


	38. Prompt: I choose you

**Prompt: I choose you**

* * *

"It has to be right!"

Elanor Trevelyan overheard Cullen's voice, tight with anxiety as she opened the door to his office. Blinking, as her eyes adjusted to the darker interior, she saw Cullen straighten up, his eyes wide with surprise. Opposite him in front of his desk was Leliana.

She looked from one to the other. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing," Cullen said quickly. "Just going over some reports." His face softened into his usual smile as he looked at her, and her suspicions melted away.

Leliana unsuccessfully hid a smile. "I will see to the matter we discussed, Commander," she said, backing gracefully out of the office. "Send a runner if you need anything else."

"Mm," Cullen said, not taking his eyes of the Inquisitor. Only when the door closed did he move from around the desk to take her in his arms, kissing her with a warm tenderness that brought a flush to her face.

"You're back early," he said, pulling away. "Everything alright?"

"Yes. The rift was a small one," she said. "Didn't take as much time as some of the others have." She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I thought maybe we could... spend the afternoon together? Since I'd planned to be out all day, Josie didn't have anything lined up for me, and she doesn't know I'm back yet."

Cullen's eyes shifted away from hers, and his hand reached up to rub the back of his neck. Elanor's suspicions returned in a rush.

"Alright, what's going on?"

His hand dropped. "Nothing," he said a shade too quickly. "I just... um... have a lot of paperwork..."

"Oh?" She raised one eyebrow. "And paperwork is more important than one unexpected afternoon away with me?"

"Yes, I mean, no, of course not!" he stammered. She waited and eventually he sighed, running a hand down his face. "I had a... surprise planned," he admitted, his ears going pink.

She chuckled. "And I've ruined your plans by being in unexpectedly?"

"Afraid so," he laughed.

"What's the surprise?"

He looked a little flustered, which made her even more curious. "I can't tell you—not yet. It's not... ready."

Elanor reached up to the buttons on her tunic and began to undo them slowly, deliberately.

"Are you sure?" she asked, fingers poised on the button between her breasts.

Cullen swallowed. "Yes. Quite sure."

She regarded him for a moment, surprised at the adamant tone, then shrugged and quickly unbuttoned the rest, tossing the shirt to the side.

Cullen frowned in confusion as she pulled him close. "But I'm not going to tell you..."

"I was already halfway there," she murmured, pressing a kiss to his collarbone, eliciting a hum of pleasure from his throat. "Might as well go all the way while I'm waiting for your surprise."

"Hmm," he said in agreement, his fingers winding into her hair. "But I just replaced the inkwell on my desk. Let's... um... clear it... gently... this time. I don't want to explain to Josephine why my reports had ink all over them again."

#

Some hours later, Elanor woke in Cullen's bed to find him nowhere in sight. Frowning, she rubbed her eyes, only to hear a clamor below that sounded like muffled oaths and... bleating?

She pulled her clothes on and opened the trap door that led to his office. Then she frowned, rubbed her eyes again, and shook her head a little to clear the cobwebs of sleep. But the goats were still there. Five goats and a bale of hay. Two of the goats were at the bale of hay. Three others were roaming about the office. As she watched in bewilderment, one snagged a piece of paper from Cullen's desk and began to chew.

"No, blast you," Cullen snapped, coming into view, shirtless and snarling, his hair standing up on end as if he'd run his hands through it too many times to count. He wrested the paper away and swore again as another goat begin to nibble on the furry paldrons draped over the back of the office chair.

"Get away from that!"Elanor couldn't hold back a snort of laughter as he made shooing motions with his hands. He looked up, alarm on his face.

She climbed down the ladder. A goat waddled up to sniff hopefully at the hem of her shirt. Moving past it, she walked up to Cullen, grinning, and waited.

"Maker preserve me," he sighed. "It was supposed to be three. Three goats and a sheaf of wheat. Not five goats and bale of hay. If this is Leliana's idea of a joke..."

Elanor's eyes widened. "Cullen! This was the surprise? Are you...?" She couldn't get the words out. They seemed to have gotten lodged in her throat.

"I heard... it was a tradition in the Free Marches," he said, grimacing.

Elanor's shoulders began to shake with laughter. "From my grandparents' generation, yes."

Cullen muttered something under his breath that might have been "Damn you, Varric."

He looked at her then, and she had to lock her knees so she wouldn't fall over at the tenderness in his gaze. "Elanor," he said. "I... I wanted to do this right. But everything conspired against me today, it seems. And perhaps it will never be a perfect moment. But no matter what, I choose you in spite of my failings, in spite of chaos, in spite of... everything really. I will always choose you. That is... if you'll choose me too?" He sucked in a deep breath. "Elanor, will you—"

"Yes!" she squeaked, flinging herself into his arms.

His arms wrapped tight around her and for a long while they stayed like that. Until the goats discovered that Elanor's shirt was much better tasting than the bale of hay, that is.


	39. Prompt: Are you really that stupid?

**Prompt: Are you really that stupid?**

* * *

Cassandra swore under her breath as she kicked again at the crumbling wall. The door to the room they were trying to get into was barred from the inside. In the small room behind her, Cohen—the Inquisitor, she reminded herself sternly—Varric and Solas were muttering over the contents of a small lockbox while she worked on getting through the wall. They had to find the officer. Only he carried the key, it seemed…

Cassandra felt the wall give a little more beneath her boot. "Prepare yourselves," she snapped to the men behind her. She barely heard the creak of Varric's crossbow, or the crackle of magic preparing at fingertips. The wall came crumbling down in a shower of stone, mortar, and bits of straw. The Venatori on the other side gaped with confusion.

There weren't many of them and the battle was over with quickly. Cassandra cleaned her sword on the robe of one of the Tevinter soldiers and began scanning them. The officer would be the best dressed… ah, there he was. Dressed in lurid yellows and reds that made her eyes hurt. She wrinkled her nose as she rifled through the dead man's pockets.

"Inquisitor," she said, standing to her feet again, "I've found the key…" She trailed off, staring. Cohen looked over his shoulder at her, looking for all the world like a little boy caught with his fingers in the honey jar. His cheeks bulged and he swallowed, running the back of his wrist over his mouth.

"What was that?" Cassandra strode toward him in alarm, fingers fumbling in her pouch for a healing potion. Cohen, mage that he was, had an appalling habit of nibbling on herbs and other... things to test their alchemical properties. Most of time he would end up vomiting or writhing on the ground or, one memorable night, running screaming from their camp in abject terror. Of course, when he came to his senses, he would be alight with interest, scrambling to find a scrap of paper to write down his observations. Cassandra was more than halfway convinced that Cohen would do Corypheus's work for him and inadvertently kill himself one day.

Growing more alarmed by the minute, Cassandra swatted him on the back of his head. "Spit it out!"

Cohen coughed, nearly choking, and ducked away from her hands. "I was hungry!"

Her glance fell on his hands. In one hand, he had the remains of a baked potato clutched.

Cassandra made a disgusted noise, jabbing at the room around them. "You saw what kind of filth these Venatori live in and yet you eat their food? Are you really that stupid?"

"I was hungry!" he repeated, plaintively, hand curling protectively around the remains of his potato.

Cassandra felt an absurd urge to smile at the pout she heard in his voice—_what is wrong with me?_—and squashed the impulse by dangling the key in front of his nose. "We can eat back at camp, Inquisitor. Here's the key. Let's get this stupid scroll we came here for and leave." She turned to look for Varric and Solas.

They too were hastily wiping their chins of crumbs and avoiding her gaze.

She threw up her hands in disbelief. "Am I surrounded by children?"


	40. A toast to ourselves

Prompt: "A toast to ourselves" and picchar's lovely drawing of Alistair and Cousland at a chest of cheese. Check out picchar on tumblr! :3

* * *

Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose as he exited the throne room and headed toward the royal quarters. This morning he'd been closeted with his ministers and councilors, had a two hour long meeting with the sneering diplomat from Orlais, and then sat for another three hours listening to petitions. Normally Elissa was there to shoulder some of the burden, but she'd left a note for him that morning, saying she'd had some errands to run. Gray Warden stuff most likely.

A twinge of homesickness assailed him. He'd had to give up the Wardens the moment he took the crown. Elissa was Warden Commander—her duties as Queen allowed her to have the freedom to manage Fereldan's Warden business—but he couldn't deny that he missed it. Certainly there had been horrible moments during the Blight, but the camaraderie of the road, the simple task of "find darkspawn and kill them" was something he missed.

And, of course, there was the privacy. Kings and Queens were surrounded nearly at all times by courtiers, councilors, and bodyguards. He was used to it by now, but on days like today, he missed the ability to sneak off into the woods for a little kiss and cuddle.

Today.

Alistair stopped dead in the corridor and groaned out loud, earning side-eyed glances from the pair of guards on duty outside the entrance to the royal quarters. Today was their _anniversary_: not their wedding anniversary, which would be a few months later, but the anniversary of the first time he'd told Elissa he'd loved her, only to feel his heart burst when she told him the same in return. They'd thought of that as their true anniversary for years now and had always celebrated together.

Elissa must have forgotten as he had. He supposed it was only natural. Ten years they'd been together. If he was honest, he'd probably taken her for granted lately. And today, when he should remember how much he loved her still, she was gone.

Shoulders slumped, Alistair opened the door to his quarters, and paused at the threshold, mouth agape.

A suit of Grey Warden armor stood neatly on a stand just in front of the fireplace.

Not just any Grey Warden armor, he realized, walking closer to examine it: it was _his_ armor, the set that Duncan had given him after he'd survived the Joining. Someone had taken it out of the chest he'd stored it in, cleaned it up, buffed out the worst of the nicks and scratches, smoothed out the dents in the chestplate, and polished it until the silverite shone brighter than a full moon. Someone had worked for several days to get this armor looking like new. He felt his throat grow alarmingly tight.

A scrap of paper tucked under one of the straps on the shoulder caught his eye.

_Wear the armor. Find me._ it read in a looping scrawl he recognized as his wife's handwriting.

Grinning now, he dismissed his guards and pulled on the armor. It was a bit tighter than he remembered—particularly around the middle and he thereby resolved to put in more than just cursory exercises once a week—but otherwise, it felt just as he remembered.

It didn't take long to find her. She was sitting just outside the city gates under the shade of a tree, a small chest beside her on the ground. She was tossing a small dagger up and down, but caught it as she spied him and smiled widely. She too was dressed in her old Grey Warden armor. He'd forgotten just how she looked in it and lengthened his stride until he was close enough to put his hands around her hips and pull her in for a lingering kiss. He could feel her surprise at first, then she melted against him.

"I missed you," he said in a low voice when he finally pulled back, thumbing a strand of hair from her cheek.

She laughed gently. "You saw me last night."

"I know," he said, a little sheepish, "but I've only just realized that I've not told you that I loved you in..." He did some quick mental calculation. "Fifteen hours? I am so sorry, my love."

She laughed again and kissed him again, fingers curling into his hair. "I have an anniversary present for you." She tugged him under the shade of the tree.

He raised his eyebrows. "Treasure?"

"Of a kind," she said, smiling. "Open it."

He knelt down and lifted the lid. The box was filled with cheeses of all shapes and sizes, all wrapped in paper or cloth, but the warm, buttery aroma was impossible to miss.

"There's even a spreadable one called... Camembert I think?" Elissa was saying. "I persuaded the Orelsian diplomat to bring some, though I'm taking all the credit for it." She grinned, her cheek dimpling. She tossed the dagger up and down with one hand then walked it across her knuckles somehow. He scooted back to sit beside her, pulling her in for another kiss.

"My love you have outdone yourself," he said, grinning. "Are we to have a cheese picnic?"

"I'd hoped to recreate that day," she said with a sad smile. "I thought about cutting my hair short again to put in pigtails—" Alistair made a startled noise. "I thought about this huge, elaborate plan to lead you out to the Bannorn to see if we could find that exact camp spot, but there wasn't time."

"Time?"

"I have to leave for awhile," she said, leaning against his shoulder. "Avernus has a lead on some information about the Calling. I've got to go... but I just wanted... I just wanted one day; our day before I left."

Alistair was quiet for a moment. They'd both known this day was coming. Communication with the old Warden at Soldier's Peak had been fast and furious over the past few months. Avernus had had something of a breakthrough recently but was too paranoid to entrust any of what he had discovered to writing. So, he'd known it was coming, but it didn't make the pang of missing her already any less.

He pressed a kiss on her head. "Let me know what I can do, love."

Her hand around his waist tightened. "Just... be with me for today"

"Not just today," he reminded her, rubbing his hand up her back.

She tilted her head up for another kiss, this one long and lingering. "I love you," she whispered.

"And I you," he said, the ghost of ten years ago at this very gate coming back to him. "Always."


	41. The Lute

A/N: What spawned this ficlet is the fact that there's an actual lute in the little cabin in Haven, and since I knew my Inq was musical before the game even started, well I knew I had to write how it got there. :)

* * *

Cullen watched the so-called Herald of Andraste as she learned her way around Haven. She'd only been awake for little more than a day, and though he didn't know her well yet, he could tell she still didn't feel back to normal. He'd learned long ago the way a body holds itself when injured. It was part of his responsibility as a commander to recognize when one of his own was pushing too hard. But he didn't know this Heraldd—Lady Trevelyan—yet well enough to inquire after her well-being. And she certainly wasn't under his command that he could force her to rest. Still, Cassandra knew her business and if she said the Herald was ready, than he trusted her judgement.

Not that he was watching Lady Trevelyan for any length of time, of course not. Cullen cleared his throat, hoping his cheeks weren't red, and turned back to his paperwork. But his head inevitably rose again, looking out past the upraised tent flaps to see her where she stood, face turned toward the froze lake. She seemed more than just physically tired though. When she thought no one was looking, she seemed almost sad. Her mouth—beautiful when it smiled—turned down slightly, her eyes lowered, expression pensive, as if looking for something no longer there. And then the inevitable wince and glance at the strange mark on her hand. She'd taken to wearing a glove just so others wouldn't stare. But they did anyway. Cullen himself had the first time he met her properly.

The next morning, he walked into the chamber of the chantry that had been dubbed the "war room." Leliana's detailed vellum map spread across a couple of desks that had been pushed together. Lady Trevelyan was already inside and he paused, surprised. He was normally the first one in the room. He got up early on purpose so he could go over reports that came in late the evening before and any that might have come in over night.

"Good morning, my lady," he said, continuing across the room. He managed not to slosh his tea down his front as he sat down, grateful that he'd eaten breakfast in the barracks. He was conscious of a nervousness, a desire to not make himself look a fool in front of her, and chastised himself for the thought.

"Good morning, Commander," she said, jumping a little, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes. He had to smile. Guess she hadn't been expecting anyone either. She immediately bent over the map, but it was soon obvious that she wasn't really looking at anything in particular. She kept picking up the little cast-iron markers that Josephine had commissioned and tossing them around, finally juggling them with surprising ease.

"Impressive," he said, sipping his morning tea (Seheron black, strong with a generous dollop of honey). "Did you learn that at home?"

She chuckled, catching the pieces and putting them back down. "Yes. The many accomplishments of Marcher young ladies. We're supposed to be good at many things, expert in none."

"Such as?" He'd had little experience with noble young women, aside from Hawke, he supposed. But then again he didn't think Hawke was a good example of the average noblewoman.

"Oh, all the usual," she said, waving her hand through the air. "Geography, language, math, science, literature, a dab of architecture, needlepoint, calligraphy, sword work..."

"Maker's breath," he said, surprised, "I didn't realize. What was your favorite subject?"

She paused, a brief look of grief passing into her eyes. "Music," she said. "But I lost my lute when the Temple exploded... I haven't had a chance to try to send for another."

"Josie, we've been through this," Leliana said as the door creaked open. "I'm not going to send Marcel to the dinner. Orlesian or no, he's too blunt to wrangle the kind of connections you desire. Let me think on the matter. I'm sure one of my other agents will suffice."

"Well if you say so—Ah, you're both here!" Josephine said, coming into the war room behind the red-haired bard. "Good. I have a stack of letters from... well, just about everyone. We need to get started..."

Cullen glanced at the Inquisitor, but she was focused on the papers that Josephine handed her.

_Music_, he thought musingly. He wondered if she could sing... and what her voice sounded like if she did.

"Commander?"

With an effort, Cullen focused his attention on his fellow advisers and set the thought of Lady Trevelyan cradling a lute aside for later.

#

Elanor Trevelyan woke early, as the birds were beginning their song and dawn was a cold gray light behind the curtains of her small cabin. She'd always been an early riser, even as a child. Her father liked to joke that it must have been the Maker's sign that she was meant for the Chantry. Elanor frowned at the unbidden memory. She loved the Chantry… but she'd never been as certain as he that her life was supposed to be spent inside the cloister.

It had been her one notable rebellion against him: the reluctance to commit to a date to say her final vows. Because of that, she'd been chosen to go with the small delegation to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, to protect her cousins who were there to minister. And now here she was with this unholy mark on her hand and they were dead.

She sat up, swinging her bare legs over the edge of her bed and stood, facing the sun. "Blessed is our Maker…" she began in a sleep-scratchy voice.

It wasn't proper matins, not without a Revered Mother to give out the calls, but she managed, feeling the loss of her lute as she sang the Chant. Once morning prayers were finished, she splashed her face with cold water from last night, shivering and spluttering at the chill.

She was still stiff after being throttled by that pride demon at the Breach. Still, she felt better today than she had yesterday and moved into a series of dagger forms to warm up her muscles for the day. While she was on the third set, her eyes wandered the room and she stopped in the middle of a thrust in shock: a gleaming, honey-colored lute sat on the small desk. Mouth open in wonder, she tripped over to the desk, fingers hovering over the instrument as if afraid to touch it only to find out that it was an illusion.

It wasn't. She grasped the neck, lifting it into her hands. Maker it was a beautiful instrument: the sound hole was exquisitely carved into trailing knotwork that captured the eye, the neck was sleek and graceful. She strummed the strings – a little out of tune, but not bad. Probably had been perfectly in tune when it was left here.

Speaking of which… who had left it here? She was certain it hadn't been on the desk the night before when she'd gone to bed. The cabin was too small for her to miss something so obvious. Her cabin had a lock and only a few people had access to the keys. One was in her pocket. The other was hanging on a hook in the war room – in case she ever collapsed again and Cassandra or Leliana needed to come get her.

Someone had arrived at her cabin while she was still sleeping, probably very early.

There was only one person who rose earlier than she did… Warm pleasure flooded through her and she couldn't keep a smile from her face. Snagging her cloak from its hook, she reclaimed her new lute and left the cabin, striding quickly to the Chantry.

Cullen was inside the war room as she'd known he would be, sipping from a steaming cup.

"Cullen—" she said, breathless from her walk, but then a voice piped up beside her.

"Ah! You found my little gift!" Josephine said from a chair beside the door. Elanor blinked; she'd been so focused on Cullen she hadn't even noticed the small Antivan woman.

Elanor glanced at Cullen who was avoiding her eyes, ears pink. "Y-Your gift?"

"Of course!" Josephine said with a dimpled smile. "I heard a rumor that you were musical, but had sadly misplaced your instrument. I do hope this one is sufficient. I used to play but it's been so long…"

A rumor… Elanor glanced at Cullen again, warmth again spreading through her. He was so careful not to embarrass her, so careful to give her an out if she wanted one. He looked up and she caught his eyes.

"It's a lovely gift, Josie. Thank you." She held his gaze a second longer, then returned her attention to the ambassador, holding the lute close.


	42. Prompt: Tidying up for company

Prompt: Tidying up for company (via the domesticity prompt on tumblr)

* * *

Cullen watched, perplexed, as the Inquisitor flitted about the great hall of Skyhold like a panicked kitten chasing a butterlfy. She paused to straighten one of the mosaic tiles on the wall, then, red hair streaming behind her, ran across to polish a candelabra with a rag. Then, suddenly thinking of something else, she dropped the rag and scurried to the fireplace near Varric's usual spot, getting down on her knees to scrub futilely at the scorch marks on the stone where burning embers had fallen out further onto the flagstone floor.

Cullen glanced around, but it was early yet and no one else appeared to be awake. He'd only woken up because he'd gotten cold and saw that the space beside him was empty.

"Elanor?"

She looked up at the sound of her name, streaks of hair wisping across her face.

"What are you doing?"

Elanor blinked. "Cleaning."

He had to hide a smile. "I see that. But why? There is a small army of servants around here who are paid to do so."

She reached into the pocket of her skirt, brandishing a folded piece of paper at him. "Letter from my brother. It got lost in my huge stack of paperwork. Just found it a half hour ago." Her eyes widened in panic. "He's coming, Cullen. He's coming today. Probably this morning if the roads are dry.

Cullen walked to where she still sat on the floor and smoothed a strand of hair out of her eyes. "It still doesn't explain why you're in a frenzy of cleaning."

Elanor chewed on her lower lip. "Bartie is... Well I love him dearly. But he's... Ugh." She rubbed a hand through her hair in frustration. "He's always seen me as the flighty, irresponsible one." Her lips thinned. "He wanted me to stay in the Chantry, to take vows. He wanted me to be 'good, sweet Ela,' not... me." Her eyes sparkled. "It was always such fun to tease him: knife throwing competitions with the house guard, leading the foundling children on a musical romp all over the estate, impromptu swimming on a hot day in the river running through the estate."

Cullen blinked. "He objected to swimming?"

Elanor grinned. "He objected to my bathing costume."

He smiled, raising an eyebrow. "Describe this scandalous item of clothing."

"That's easy," she said, eyes mischievous. "Since it was nothing at all."

"Mmm. Sounds delightful. May I see it too?"

"Maybe later," she laughed, and glanced around them. "I know that it's not really dirty in here... I just... I want him to approve of this, Cullen. Is that strange?"

He slipped his hand over hers, rubbing his thumb across her knife-scarred knuckles. "Not at all." He let out a breath. "Family is... important. But complicated too."

Elanor watched him, turning her hand slightly so that their fingers could interlace. They were both leaning back against the stone wall beside the fireplace now, legs outstretched in front of them.

"You haven't talked much about your family," she noted cautiously.

He shrugged. "Not much to tell. My upbringing was painfully normal. Two loving parents—until the Blight took them—three siblings. I enlisted with the templars at a young age, left for the Fereldan Circle soon after taking my vows. I haven't been home since then." He grimaced. "I've been neglectful. But it seems like every time I set quill to paper, the explanations just dry up. They seem so pitiful."

She squeezed his hand. "You could invite them here for a visit?"

"Maker no," he said immediately. "Branson would break every serving girl's heart. Mia would go through my office, intent on reorganizing it into what she thinks would be most efficient all the while criticizing my eating habits. Rosalie would climb the highest tower on a dare."

Elanor laughed. "They sound like fun. You really _should_ invite them."

His face softened. "Maybe. Not now. Not when Skyhold is Corypheus' biggest target. But later, perhaps. When the danger is past."

They sat in silence a few moments more. Distant sounds of the rest of the castle waking up reached them. Doors creaking, the smell of fireplaces in other rooms being lit, dawn's rosy light filling the stained glass at the end of the hall. when a servant came through the Hall to light the fireplaces, yelping in fright when she saw them sitting next to it like a pair of logs, Cullen figured they'd lingered long enough. Besides, he wasn't in uniform, only in his undershirt and brecs. He should get dressed before more rumors than already existed began circulating.

He stood, offering his hand to help her off the cold floor. "Let me know when your brother arrives," he said, holding onto her hands for a moment before dropping them. He smiled. "I should very much like to meet him. And," he said, clapping her on the shoulders as if she was one of his recruits. "If he dares to treat you like a little girl, remind him just how the Inquisitor deserves to be addressed." His eyes twinkled.

"Mm. Yes, power does have perks," she laughed. She stood on her tip toes to kiss his cheek and then hurried away, back toward her quarters. Cullen watched her leave then turned, heading for the shortcut to his office via the solarium. He thought he might finally reply to that letter from Mia.


	43. Prompt: Blessed are the rigteous

**Prompt: Blessed are the rigteous, the lights in the shadow.**

* * *

The number of civilians arriving at Skyhold increased with each passing day. Elanor Trevelyan had to appoint a steward to manage the incoming people, sorting them into manageable chunks. Injured went straight to the infirmary with their families in whatever scrap of land they could find a tent for. Apostates—most of them still with no safe place to go—were welcomed in person by Elanor and Fiona and taken to the tower that the mages had adopted as their own. Refugees who had lost homes and property due to the mage/templar war were shuffled around a bit until Josephine could get verification from various cities that there were indeed jobs and homes available in such locales like Denerim, Val Royeaux, Starkhaven, and Ostwick, cities where the Inquisition had a moderate presence, or the local authorities had their feet under them and could provide a stable, safe community. Then they would be escorted in a larger group from Skyhold, happy to be going to their new life.

But there was a final group that Elanor wasn't sure what to do with. Pilgrims.

They came from all over: golden-eyed Antivans with silky accents, dusky skinned Rivaini clutching amulets around their necks, and pale Fereldans bringing their musky scent of wet dog. They all came, singing the Chant, hoping to be blessed by the Herald of Andraste.

She'd been able to avoid most of them for a long time. For awhile, she was scurrying all over, closing rifts and chasing down rogue mages and templars who didn't care what innocents got in their way. But things were different now. A year later, the Breach was closed, the worst of the rifts were gone, and she was no longer the girl who got breathless with anxiety when faced with a diplomatic meeting. Now she had reasons to want to stay at Skyhold longer between treks out settle the next bout of chaos...

Elanor watched from Cullen's bed as he washed his face in the basin, droplets of water glistening in the early morning sunlight coming through the window. He toweled off his face then stood to face the rising sun as he got dressed, humming under his breath. She realized after a moment he was singing the Chant.

_There was no word  
For heaven or for earth, for sea or sky.  
All that existed was silence.  
Then the Voice of the Maker rang out,  
The first Word..._

She felt goosebumps shiver across her skin, and she must have made some small sound, for he paused and turned, smiling when he saw her awake. He walked over, sitting down and leaning over for a kiss. "Lazy morning, my Lady Herald?"

"I wish," she sighed, pulling the sheet with her as she sat up, wrinkling her nose. "Josephine's told me that I've neglected the pilgrims enough. I won't be able to leave Skyhold without them seeing me and that might cause—as she says—unnecessary distress."

"It will do no harm for them to see you. It is good, I think, for them to see you as you are, not just a distant figurehead," he said after a moment. "No different than when you go to into cities, I imagine..."

"It _is_ different," she insisted, tugging at a loose red curl that lay against her shoulder. "Pilgrims don't just gawk and point as I ride by... they expect," she bit her lip, "they expect healing, some of them. They want miracles. They think I speak with the voice of Andraste herself and want a blessing."

"Well," said Cullen thoughtfully. "What is blessing?"

Elanor blinked. "It's..." she hesitated. "I guess it's a prayer? A prayer to the Maker that He would protect the person receiving the blessing."

"That's something any Chantry sister is trained to do," he pointed out gently, reminding her of past, when she had been only a few months away from taking vows herself.

She made a face at him. "I hate it when you make sense."

He laughed, kissed her forehead, and stood up to find his boots. "I must see to my morning roster. Find me later for lunch when I've forgotten to eat."

Elanor grumbled as she dressed and exited the tower room. She walked down the ramparts near the stable to the bathing chambers, and asked a servant to bring fresh clothes from her wardrobe.

"Will you be riding out, my lady?"

"No, Flora," she said, glancing at the distant throng of people hovering uncertainly around the open portcullis. "Bring the Herald robes. And discretely," she added. "I don't want the pilgrims to see you and guess where I am."

"Of course, my lady." The elf girl bobbed a curtsy and left, scurrying up the stairs.

One hot bath later, Elanor dressed in her robes—not much different than dresses she'd worn for important family dinners at home—and, stiffening her spine as if for battle, walked out to meet the throng. Two of Leliana's agents immediately detached themselves from shadows along the wall and walked along behind her.

"Shoo!" she said, waving a hand at them. "I'm in no danger from baby spit up or old women singing the Chant."

The two agents glanced at each other, unsure.

Elanor sighed. "Just be discreet. Don't hover so menacingly. There's no reason to scare them."

"Yes, my lady," the two said and fell further back, disappearing from her line of sight.

The pilgrims spotted her walking to them and began to stir in excitement.

"Blessed is the Herald!" she heard someone cry and others took up the murmur. Suddenly she felt unsure. She'd only wanted to get it over with, but now, faced with actual people, she felt transported back to those first few months in Haven when the Chantry and the rest of the world was questioning her every move, when she wasn't sure herself what the Maker was doing to have given her such a terrible burden. She felt, in short, like a fraud: a doll propped up on a shelf.

But she remembered Cullen's words: let them see her as she was. Blowing out a breath, she took off the ridiculous wimple that Josephine had commissioned for the robes—it had been a deliberate echo of an avowed sister's wimple, but Elanor had not taken her final vows. She would not deceive these people. She would be herself. Her braid unrolled from being pinned up and stray wisps of hair escaped to brush her face. She probably looked more like a peasant than a Herald. But at least she felt more honest now.

"Herald, would you bless my child?" An elvhen woman with an infant clutched in her arms was the first to break away from the crowd. Elanor noted the baby's human-shaped ears, the lack of a wedding band on the woman's finger, and felt a warm rush of compassion. She gently touched the child's head with an outstretched hand. Perhaps this was what blessing was: the desire to let good fall on a person, a desire to be a conduit for the Maker's blessing.

"May the Maker bless you and your child," she said, fumbling a little with the words, but the mother didn't seem to notice. Tears filled her eyes as she clutched her child to her.

"Thank you," she said, bobbing a curtsy.

"Have you eaten? Do you have a way home?" Elanor asked, as the mother and child turned to leave.

The woman paused. "Yes, I've eaten." She pointed at a large tent set up near the northern wall. "They are serving food for us there. I... I don't have a home, my lady. The mages and templars burned everything in my village to the ground. We were lucky to escape. "

Elanor gestured for her steward-standing at a discreet distance, watching the proceedings. "Go speak with Serah Geoffrey. He will be able to find a place for you."

"Oh, thank you Herald!"

And that, more than the blessing, felt more real and good. The Maker may or may not answer her prayer for a blessing of protection, but a blessing of a hot meal and a place to stay was something she could feel confident of accomplishing.

After that, the pilgrims lined up to receive her blessing. She kissed foreheads until her lips felt cracked and split, prayed until her voiced croaked, and stood until her knees ached. Finally, she looked up in surprise as a strong figure came up beside her.

"The Herald needs to rest and eat," said Cullen in a slightly more gentle version of his "commander's" voice. "She'll return tomorrow."

Elanor looked up and noticed that the sun was high in the sky. It was past lunch time and her throat was raw, her stomach unsettled from not having eaten. She took a step and hissed in pain. Her feet ached, her legs ached: everything ached. Cullen took one look and touched her elbow, mindful of the eyes on them. She nodded with relief and retreated up the stairs into the main hall. Cullen's arm snaked around her as they got inside, supporting her until they reached her room.

Elanor sank down on the couch with a groan of relief, kicking off her shoes Cullen look a little amused.

"It's my job to forget to eat," he chided, half laughing.

She threw a pillow at him. "Go do something useful like making me a sandwich. Or several sandwiches. And cookies. Many cookies."

"I stopped in the kitchens before I came to get you. A tray should be on the way soon," he said, removing his cloak and sitting beside her. She settled into his arms with a sigh.

"That was very kind of you to go through so many," he said after a moment, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, brushing her hair out of her eyes.

"I don't know if it did any good," she said after a moment, feeling a little pang of anxiety through her hunger and exhaustion. "I don't believe that the Maker hears me more than He hears any of us. I just... I don't want to deceive anyone that I can actually do all that they think I can."

Cullen was silent for a moment, his hands taking up one of hers and massaging it gently, working the stiffness out of her fingers, rubbing feeling back into her palms. "I think the important thing her was that you were there for them. You represent hope to them. Sometimes, hope is all someone needs. It's that little flicker in dark times the reminds them that they can endure, that there will be relief. That is no small thing, Elanor."

"Keep saying stuff like that," she murmured, nearly asleep by the soothing pressure of his hands, "and I'll start to believe more than those pilgrims.."

"I'll keep that in mind," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice as he lowered her hand and picked up the other one.


	44. Prompt: Scars

"You need to do something about Cole."

Solas slowly looked up to see his—no, not his, not anymore—_the_ Inquisitor standing in his doorway. He schooled his face into a calm mask to hide the sudden pang in his chest at seeing her, and annoyance flickered across her face.

"I beg your pardon?" he said, charcoal lifted above his page. He was sketching an idea for the last panel... Callaia Lavellen, lit by ethereal blue as she sank into the Well of Sorrows... The subject disturbed him, however, and he wasn't sure he wanted to commit that particular part of her adventures to the wall.

"Cole keeps trying to..." she paused, glancing away from him, "heal my hurt. But something's blocking him and it's making him very distressed. I know you did something to him to keep him from talking in front of the others, but whatever it was wasn't enough. Talk to him, do something. It's... bad enough without a spirit constantly reminding me every few hours."

Solas winced and set down his charcoal. "I... will speak to him."

He walked close by her, intending to exit into the Hall, but she touched his arm as he passed.

"Why can't you let him?" she whispered and the pain on her face stole his breath away. "He's good at it now. Just... let him. Please. Solas, I can't do this... I can't see you and..." She pressed her lips together and withdrew her hand, hurrying through the door ahead of him without finishing her sentence. It clicked shut behind her.

Solas closed his eyes, leaning against the wall for support. He needed to leave Skyhold; leave her. Space and time would be the only true healers here. But... the _Orb_. He could not leave without it, and the Inquisitor was his only reliable way of getting close to it. And so he and the Inquisitor must meet and continue to co-exist alongside each other despite the feeling of his heart tearing open every time he saw her. It was a wound that had no time to heal, not when they saw each other nearly every day.

He found Cole perched on a battlement high above the courtyard. A pair of soldiers were walking away from them, hands brushing. Solas raised an eyebrow. Cole's touch?

"Your pain is like hers," the spirit said, eyes wide. "Twin daggers plunging deep, deep, but yours is different, older, bitterer... scars twisting across your soul, hidden behind a mirror—"

Solas snapped his fingers, and Cole's eyes glazed over for a moment. Then they cleared and refocused.

"Some hurts, Cole, need to hurt. You need to leave us alone. We will heal on our own, given enough time."

The spirit was silent for a moment. If it were possible for a spirit to look sad, Cole did. "I understand," he said slowly. "There are... some hurts too old, too deep. I have been used to smaller hurts, perhaps." He looked again at Solas, his expression puzzled and sorrowful at the same time. "I won't bother the Inquisitor again." He stood, balancing on the edge of the stone work. "Perhaps you might tell her, however, that it was not drinking the Well of Sorrows that caused the hurt. She does not sleep for regret." Then he was gone. Solas's eyes tracked him a moment later, beside a pilgrim family just freshly arrived in the courtyard.

He watched for a moment. Cole was right. Her decision to drink the Well of Sorrows was not what had made him separate himself from her.

However, since he couldn't tell her the truth, he supposed one more untruth would do.


	45. Prompt: I hope you're happy

**Prompt: I hope you're happy**

* * *

Solas watched idly as the dwarven Herald of Andraste (now _there_ was a delicious irony) wandered into the little corner of Haven that housed Adan's workshop and the little cabin Solas had claimed as his own. He had originally shared it with three others: one left refusing to share cabin space with a "knife ear," the others because of his magic. No matter. He preferred the quiet. Now he watched, leaning against the stone wall as the Herald approached, her face pensive and confused by turns. She kept turning to look at the Breach, then pausing, brow furrowed.

Too curious to stop himself, Solas spoke up as she wandered close enough. "Something on your mind?"

She paused, looking startled. She'd only been awake from the fight at the Breach for a day or two, but she seemed to be recovering. Though the dark circles under her eyes weren't promising.

"I don't know," she said slowly, her eyes narrowed. "Did I see you... last night? Yesterday?"

Solas blinked. "Yesterday, certainly. We spoke about the Fade not two steps from where we stand now. Last night, however, I was here, asleep. You, I imagine, were also sleep in your cabin."

She continued to frown. "But I remember seeing you... or at least someone like you... and I swore I saw a nug go flying through the air. But the memory is weird... a little fuzzy."

Solas' eyebrows rose. "I'm sure I would have heard the gossip if one of our mages did such a thing. Perhaps you dreamt it?"

Merida Cadash shook her head. "Dwarves don't dream. We sleep like the Stone."

From behind her, a loud snort announced the presence of Varric, coming out of Adan's shop. He tucked a vial of something nastily green into his pocket and sauntered over.

"You don't even know what the Stone is," Varric pointed out. "You're even more of a surfacer than I am. My parents are Orzammar born, but House Cadash has been out of the rocks since before they were born."

She made a face at him. "It's a saying. Stone doesn't dream, does it? Well neither do dwarves. Or are you trying to say that you dream, Varric?"

"Nope. Never had the pleasure." He glanced up at Solas with a grin. "Probably sounds like one of those nightmares to you, eh Chuckles? Not being able to dream."

Solas repressed a shudder. "Indeed," was all he said. He returned his attention to the Herald. "Have you had any other occurrences of... strange 'fuzzy' memories?"

"Only since I woke up with this," she said, raising her hand that held the Mark. Solas' gaze fastened on it, drawn against his will to thoughts of what it meant for him... and what it meant for his plans.

"Huh," Varric said. "Chuckles, you thinking what I'm thinking?"

Solas raised an eyebrow. "I doubt that very much."

"You said the Mark gave her a connection to the Fade, right?" Varric persisted. "We all saw her close the rifts with it. What if—because of the Mark doohickey—our dwarven Herald... is the first dwarf to dream?"

"What? That's ridiculous," Merida scoffed, crossing her arms.

"That theory actually has merit," Solas said, tapping his chin. "What you may be feeling, Lady Cadash, is akin to someone else waking up with an extra limb, or extra sense, as it were. Dreaming for the first time. Extraordinary."

Merida scowled. "Can you make it stop?"

"I doubt it," Solas said. "It is clearly tied to your Mark and unless we figure out a way to get rid of that, I'm afraid your dreams are here to stay." She looked so discomfited that he suppressed a laugh. "Dreams can be wonderful. You'll grow to enjoy them."

Varric snorted again. "Yeah, even the nightmares."

Merida looked apprehensive. "What's... a nightmare? That doesn't sound good."

Solas threw Varric a repressive look. "If you wish, I will observe your sleeping self from the Fade for a few nights until you adjust, guarding your mind so that your fears don't twist your dreams into something... less pleasant."

"Yeah... that would be nice," the Herald said and then hurried into Adan's workshop, wide-eyed.

"I hope you're happy," Solas remarked to Varric, pressing his lips together in disapproval. "Now she will certainly have bad dreams with you planting the idea in her mind."

Varric shrugged. "The kid survived a walk through the Fade-physically! A little mind jaunt through the place should be fine."

"Hm."

#

The next morning Varric saw the Herald looking a little strange at the breakfast tent. He suppressed a twinge of guilt, remembering what the elf had said.

"Dreamed again?" he asked, spearing a sausage with his fork.

"Yeah," she said slowly. "I was naked in the War Room. Is that what you meant by a nightmare?"

Varric choked on his sausage.


	46. Prompt: Take it off

_**WARNING TRESPASSER DLC SPOILERS. DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVEN'T FINISHED THE DLC. **_**Solas/Lavellan.**

* * *

Solas's lips had scarcely pulled away from hers when Callaia Lavellan cried out as another blast from the Anchor consumed her hand, shock waves of pain radiating up her arm and into her chest. She was dying, and even Solas (_Fen'Harel_ her mind whispered) couldn't do anything.

"Vhenan," he said, fingers on her chin, holding her attention briefly away from the pain. "Are you ready for what must happen?"

She looked up at him. Did he mean to talk more about his horrible plan? But, no, his gray eyes were gazing at her hand.

"Inquisitor!"

Thom's voice rang out behind her. Had her companions finally figured out a way through the eluvian?

"Are you ready?" Solas asked again, seemingly unaware of the footfalls coming closer.

"Solas..."

"Yes?"

"_Ar lath ma, vhenan._"

A pause, and then the ghost of his lips on her forehead. "_Ar lath ma, vhenan._"

She closed her eyes, bowing her head. "Take it off."

Solas' voice was suddenly sharp. "Blackwall, your sword! The Inquisitor needs your help."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Thom stop, looking suspiciously at Solas, but then the Anchor cracked again.

At her cry of pain, the Warden stepped forward. "Maker," he swore, as Callaia peeled off the glove of her marked hand with trembling fingers.

Dorian, hanging back a bit, stepped forward. "Quickly, Thom. You can do it in one stroke right?"

"Do you have any healing potions?" Solas asked.

"Half of one," Dorian said with a grimace. "That Viddasala really did a number on our supplies." His face twisted in grief. "And we discovered just before our last battle that the Iron Bull had sabotaged a lot of them."

Solas made a noise of frustration. "I will temporarily modify this eluvian," he said, gesturing at the large mirror in front of them. It will take you close enough to the Crossroads to get back to the Winter Palace in less time than it took you to get here." His gaze seemed to pierce through Thom. "Don't you dare let her bleed out."

"I know enough field medicine," Thom said in a grim voice. "You and Dorian can keep her comfortable until we can find the healers."

Callaia wanted to laugh or cry or both. Solas wasn't going with them... But all that came out was, "Hurry!" in a agonized hiss.

Solas cast one more glance at her, then strode to the mirror with hands upraised, eyes shining with magic she'd never seen from him before.

Thom gestured at Dorian, and he immediately came to her side, bracing her with his arms, his hands warm. "It'll be okay," he murmured, though he looked a little ill as she stretched out her arm.

"Do it!" she grunted. Thom pulled his sword and sliced down.

Callaia screamed. Agony like she'd never felt seared through her like a flame. It wasn't going to stop, it wasn't going to stop...

#

She awoke with the taste of healing potion on her tongue, and her head cradled against a cold silverite chest plate. Her feet dangled over thin air as a beard tickled her forehead.

Pain throbbed at her left arm and she tensed. She needed to discharge the Anchor, but... no...

"Don't move," said Dorian, his hand briefly on her forehead. "It might dislodge the tourniquet. We're almost to the Winter Palace."

"Solas...?"

"He disappeared again while we were attending to your arm," Thom said, his voice disapproving. "I thought there was something between you two, but I must have been wrong."

"No," she found herself saying, knowing with a clear certainty that it was true. _Ar lath ma, vhenan._ "I think he loves me more than he's ever loved before..." Pain was making it difficult to train her thoughts, and she closed her eyes. "But... I need to tell you all what he plans to do. We have to... we have to stop..."

"Hush, dearest," Dorian said. "You can tell us all at once when you're feeling better."

She wanted to protest again, but then remembered that the qunari were gone, and Solas had promised at least a few years of peace before... before he did whatever it was he planned to do. Maybe she would rest before saving the world once more.


	47. Prompt: I did warn you not to trust me

_**WARNING TRESPASSER SPOILERS.**_

#

#

#

* * *

When they reached him, the Iron Bull had one of his large hands pressed against the gaping wound in his side where Cole's daggers had bit deep.

Callaia Lavellan stood over him, tears stinging her eyes.

Bull's good eye opened. Blood-smeared teeth smiled up at her. "I did warn you... not to... trust me."

"How could you, Bull?" She took a step forward, then thought better of it. She didn't know if he was faking now. Had she ever known?

He coughed, a wet, sucking sound. "Nothing... personal. You knew... what you... were getting... when you... hired... me."

She crouched down to hear his voice better. "We would have jumped in front of a sword for you, Bull. All of us. Does that count for nothing?"

His eye slid shut, his face going slack. "It was... fun, boss. But Iron Bull isn't real... and victory is in the Qun."

His hand fell away from his side.

"His heart had a wall around it," Cole said, coming up beside her, staring sadly down at Iron Bull with his large eyes. "Krem, gone. Grim, gone... reminder of his true purpose. No friends, only the Qun is certain."

Callaia closed her eyes. "I did this," she whispered. "If I hadn't made that stupid alliance..."

"Wouldn't that have made Bull Tal-Vashoth?" Thom asked, coming up as he sheathed his sword. "An outcast from his own people?"

"_We_ would be his people," Callaia snapped.

"You don't know that, lass," Thom said, kindness in his voice. "He might have turned against us anyway, even if he were Tal-Vashoth. Being here, seeing the Viddasala might have brought back what he was missing."

She shook her head, knowing it wasn't true, but didn't want to argue. Leaning heavily on her staff, Callaia rose to her feet, turning her back on her friend's body, and kept moving forward.


	48. Pre-Trespasser

**Note****:** 99% of this story was written with only the Trespasser trailer in mind, so it doesn't match up with actual canon events in the DLC. But I hated to throw it away so here it is, only changed a little bit to include the Exalted Council.

* * *

Elanor woke up to a searing pain in her left hand and the flash of phosphorescent light. The light from the Anchor glowed through the glove she kept on it at night, illuminating Cullen's sleep-tousled curls and bleary eyes.

The Anchor throbbed again and she cried out. Cullen sat up immediately. "Elanor? What's wrong?"

"It's... there must be a rift nearby," she grunted, grabbing her wrist as the power flowing through the Anchor made her whole arm ache. "It... hasn't felt like this... in ages."

"Get dressed," he said, climbing out of bed. "I'll gather some soldiers experienced in fighting demons. Wherever this rift is, we'll get it closed." He pulled a shirt over his head and looked at her with concern. "Will you be alright?"

She nodded. "Go. I'll meet you in the Main Hall." Cullen nodded, only taking the time to put on trousers and boots before he left, casting her one more look, just as another wave hit her. She bit down on her lip as the Anchor crackled like fire. _Maker_, she thought. When was the last time the mark on her hand had done this?

_Not since the Breach_, she thought, chilled. All of the smaller rifts she had closed years before had been small things that made her hand light up, but with merely a tingle of pain that eased as soon as the rift closed. Never like this. Not like the first time she woke up with it, and Cassandra had to lift her bodily from the mountain path because of the pain wracking her arm.

The wave subsided, though the mark still glowed more brightly than it had in years. Elanor took the opportunity to get dressed in her leathers, sheathing her daggers, and holding her helm under her arm as she descended the steps from her quarters in Skyhold. Two years had passed. It had been a mostly quiet reprieve from the chaos of the Breach War. After the battle with Corypheus, she'd spent several months in the farthest reaches of Thedas, closing a few rifts that had cropped up, but that had been more than a year ago. For a long time now, the Inquisition had just been... slumbering. Orlais and Ferelden no longer stumbled and stuttered. Stability was the order of the land, and she was glad. She missed her companions, of course... but their leaving was a good sign that the Inquisition wasn't needed any longer. She and Cullen had even begun discussing long term plans to disband, making sure their soldiers and other folks had jobs and homes before shutting the doors to Skyhold for good. And that felt right. From the beginning, though Solas had never said so, she'd felt like Skyhold was simply on loan to them. She'd cared for it as best she could... but it could not be a permanent home. And the Exalted Council would want to make sure of that. They were expected to leave this morning on the journey to Val Royeaux.

Her hand crackled again and she winced. Why a new rift? Here? Now?

Elanor entered the Main Hall, but it was empty; Cullen had not yet returned. While she waited, she decided to go to the doors and look outside. The Anchor was throbbing enough that she half expected a rift to be right outside. However, when she pushed open the small inset door to get out through the main doors, the courtyard was dark and quiet. There were a few torches here and there along the battlements, but no alarm bells, no yelling or panic, no shriek of demons newly birthed from a rift. She felt a chill and hurried back inside. Cullen was just coming from a side door, Leliana right behind him. The spymaster looked typically put together and wide awake, even in the middle of the night.

"Elanor," Cullen said, coming toward her, face grim. "There's..."

"No rift near Skyhold, I know," she said.

"I have sent birds to various outposts," Leliana said. "And Cullen has sent small squads to scout the surrounding area. If there is a rift nearby, we should have word soon."

"Wouldn't our outposts have already sent word if something was forming near them?"

Leliana nodded slowly. "Yes... they should have."

Elanor flexed her hand again. The Anchor felt... restive... like a jungle cat waiting to pounce on unsuspecting prey. The pain wasn't as sharp, but still there, throbbing and warm like a fresh wound. "Have we sent anyone to Haven?"

Cullen's eyes widened. "Do you think someone could have opened the Breach again?"

Elanor was silent for a moment. "Let's pray that isn't the case."

It was a long night of waiting. Cullen and Elanor waited in the solarium below Leliana's messenger bird haven. Elanor leaned against Cullen, feeling ill as the pain continued to ebb and flow. Cullen kept her hand clasped against his chest, combing his free hand through her hair as if she were sick. .

Solas's paintings loomed eerily around them, flickering in the candlelight. "I wish Solas were here," she said softly. "He was the only mage I ever met who seemed to know what to do with this thing."

"He kept the mark stable for awhile, didn't he?" Cullen murmured. "Right after the explosion?"

"Yes, though I don't know how." Elanor sighed. "If only he hadn't run away... I might have been able to protect him from... whatever it was he was running from."

Cullen rubbed her back soothingly. "He was an apostate," he pointed out. "He probably feared with the return of stability might mean the return of the Circles."

Elanor thought of the elf mage's parting words... "No matter what happens, know that I will always respect you" and doubted. But at that moment Leliana returned, scraps of paper in her fist. "The scouts have returned from the road leading down from Skyhold. No demons, no rifts. It's possible that some could have formed on the steep sides of the mountains where our scouts could not go... but we would need a mage, perhaps, to ascertain that much."

"Did you ever try to find Solas, when he first left?" Elanor asked. Cullen glanced at her.

Leliana seemed to pick her meaning immediately. "He was the one who helped you in the beginning, no? I did attempt a few tmes. I admit I was curious as to why he would leave so abruptly. But Solas is... adept at hiding his tracks. I know only that he left the Temple of Sacred Ashes in some hurry and from there, his trail vanished."

Elanor pressed her lips together. "Send out your scouts again, to some of the old ruins. Leave messages with what has happened. It is a long shot, perhaps, but worth taking."

"I will see to it, Inquisitor." The spymaster paused in her turn. "There are other mages learned in Fade lore. None, perhaps, as deeply as Solas, but maybe they could be of use?"

Elanor shook her head. "We'll have to worry about it after the Exalted Council." She stood, flexing her hand. "It seems stable now. We should leave now, get an early start on the road. Who knows, maybe we'll encounter a rift along the way."

But as they prepared for travel, Elanor couldn't help but glance at the Anchor from time to time. Somehow, she knew it wasn't over.


	49. A dream of thee

**Note:** Another pre-Trespasser snippet. Originally, it was going to be part of a longer piece about Lavellan visiting her clan after Corypheus is defeated, but then Trespasser came out and I've forgotten what I wanted to do with the rest. Oh well. Anyway, this scene works by itself well enough.

* * *

Mages were born vivid dreamers, and Callaia Lavellan's dreams since receiving the Anchor were more than usually realistic in terms of how engaged her senses were. But even for her, this dream felt unusually startling.

For the first time since he'd left, she dreamed of Solas.

She was walking through the Hinterlands. She could hear the cheery chatter of the Inquisition camp ahead and smiled. How strange it felt to be happy to be among so many humans and a fair number of dwarves. There was a time in the not-so-distant past that she would have shunned their company with a shudder. In a moment, she was at the tents, and she knew that Solas would already be inside. In the strange way of dreams, she was within the tent with no memory of walking into it. He was indeed inside, and asleep, head pillowed on his pack. She sat down beside him, not wanting to disturb his slumber, but she couldn't help reaching out hand to cradle his cheek.

His eyes sprang open. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to wake you. Scout Harding said there's a group of templars along the river that are causing trouble. We should clear them out tomorrow."

"You shouldn't be here," he said after a pause.

Callaia felt a twist in her chest. _No_, she thought. _No, I want to stay here in this moment... before.. before..._ and just like that she was lucid. The Fade Hinterlands shimmered around her, still recognizable, but distorted somehow, as if she were viewing it through warped glass. But Solas was still there, still gazing up at her with clear gray eyes. So vivid she could feel his heart beat through her hand on his chest, quick and solid and real. She wanted to weep.

He turned and she knew that he was going to leave, or make her wake up, and her hand darted forward. "Wait."

He paused, and moved again, only to sit up, still not looking quite at her, but not fully away either.

"I just want to know..." she licked her lips, tasting salt, though she knew she wasn't crying. "Are you happy? Are you safe?"

He huffed out a breath that was half a laugh. "Always the worrier, vhenan," he said, and there was that pain again in her chest at the fondness in his voice.

"I am safe," he said, "perhaps too safe for the moment. I did not place my stronger wards, and thus, here you are."

Callaia waited, but he did not answer the first question, and that, perhaps, was an answer itself.

"I'm sorry," she blurted, biting her lip. "I didn't mean to seek you out—I've tried not to... to..."

He squeezed her hand, which she realized was still resting on his chest. "Atisha. I know you've respected my wish..." he said, voice sad, then let her hand go. She snatched it back, feeling herself blush for the unthinking intimacy. He gathered his pack, slinging it over his shoulders and picking up his staff from where it lay on the ground between them.

"Dareth shiral, Inquisitor," he said, and she wished suddenly that she hadn't dreamed of him, for the distance in his voice cut through to the wound that had barely begun to heal over. She knew that she would never find him in her dreams again, except perhaps of the more banal variety. He would be much too careful in the future.

"You said it was real," she blurted out as he lifted the tent flap, preparing to leave. He paused at her voice. "Was that a lie? Was it all a lie?"

He glanced over his shoulder and the sorrow in his face took her breath away. "No, vhenan," he said. "I... lied many times to you. But never doubt what we had." The tent flap lifted and he was gone into the bright sunlight.


	50. Prompt: Inside Information

**Trespasser spoilers**

**Prompt:** Inside Information

* * *

Sulahn whuffed at her ear as leaves crunched underfoot. Callaia reached up an absent hand to scratch the hart's nose. "Almost there," she said and the next moment an arrow was centered between her eyes.

"Don't move, flat ear," growled a voice in a lilting Dalish accent. Sulahn keened a shrill note of alarm.

Callaia flicked her fingers and the hunter on the other end of the bow gave a jump of surprise as static electricity shocked her. "It's me, Kavera."

The woman on the other end of the bow hesitated, eyes narrowing. "Callaia," she said at last. Her eyes were sharp, suspicious as she lowered the bow. "Where is your vallaslin?"

Callaia inhaled a sharp, pained breath. "It was removed. With magic," she said after a moment.

Kavera's eyes widened behind her own dark vallaslin of Sylaise. "I didn't even know that was possible!"

"You're not a mage," Callaia said, pointing out the obvious.

Kavera slung her bow on her back. "How did it happen? Did an enemy mage capture you?" Her eyes darted to the pinned sleeve of Callaia's left arm.

Callaia felt the ghost of Solas' gentle hands on her face, the remembrance of warm lips on her mouth. Once, those memories would have made her breathless in pain, but she had cried over him for too long. Now it was just a dull ache in her chest. "No," she said, and did not elaborate. "I came to speak to the Keeper. It's... urgent."

"You haven't been home before. Mythal'enaste, it's been... what, five years?"

"I've been busy," she said, a little hardness coming to her voice. "The Inquisition is... was not as easy to run as it might seem from the outside."

"All right, fine," Kavera said, hands up in a placating gesture. She looked up at the hart as Sulahn chirruped. "What is that thing?"

"This is Sulahn," Callaia said, scratching at the thick fur underneath the hart's chin. "A gift from another clan I was able to help awhile back."

Kavera cocked her head. "Sulahn... 'Singer'?"

Callaia's mouth curved a tired smile. "Can I pass? I've had a long journey."

Kavera looked over her shoulder longingly. "Sure. I'd escort you back to the clan, but I'm on watch. See you later when my shift is up."

Callaia nodded and walked past her, Sulahn following behind. It wasn't long before she encountered the traditional statue of Fen'Harel, canine face pointed out away from the camp to frighten away harmful spirits. She paused, regarding the moss-covered statue for a moment. Finally, she rested a hand on the wolf's head. "I will find you," she whispered. "And if I have to pound some sense into your thick skull, I will."

Soon, the soothing curved shapes of aravels became apparent through the tree cover. Sulahn lifted his head, ears pricked, wide nostrils scenting. He let out a trumpeting call that was answered with the more timid calls of the halla fenced in just ahead of them. Callaia patted the large hart on the neck.

"Mind your manners," she chided. The hart's ears swiveled as she spoke, but his head lowered slightly, less imperious and domineering.

"That's better," she said, walking with him closer to the fence. The halla tender sitting idly on the fence straightened in alarm. As well he might. Callaia sometimes forgot that Sulahn was as large as most horses with an impressive rack that stretched out nearly two feet from his head. Beside him, the halla looked like small and delicate toys.

"Aneth ara," the hahren said, still watching Sulahn suspiciously.

"He won't hurt them, hahren," Callaia said reassuringly, recognizing the older man, his gray hair in braids that fell past his cheeks.

He turned at her voice and he brightened. "Callaia!"

She smiled, tired, and began to divest Sulahn of his saddle and her staff, which she slung into its normal hook on her back. "Can he stay here, hahren? He's too big to follow me into the camp."

"Of course, da'len. It is good to see you home."

Sulahn obediently walked up to the fence as Callaia opened the gate to let him in. As she turned around, the hahren was still looking at her. He squinted, doubling the wrinkles around his eyes. "There's something odd about you..."

She turned, ostensibly to pick up Sulahn's saddle and hang it on the fence. It was stupid, but she'd honestly forgotten her vanished vallaslin and what that would mean to the clan.

"Oh," he said, looking awkward. "Your... injury. Sorry, da'len. Didn't mean to stare."

"It's alright," she said, "I forget about it myself sometimes."

She walked past the first aravel and immediately spotted Keeper Deshanna bent over a fire, prodding the logs to greater heat.

As if feeling eyes on her, the Keeper turned and looked straight at her. The older woman's eyes widened.

"Da'len!"

The joy she was greeted with was a balm to the wounded part of her soul. Keeper Deshanna shooed all the younger elves away, eager for war stories, and gathered Callaia into her arms.

"Welcome home, da'len."

Callaia squeezed back, feeling herself relax for the first time in a long while.

"Keeper," she said, pulling back reluctantly. "I have... important news that cannot wait. May we speak somewhere privately?"

The older woman's eyes scanned her face, narrowing once they noticed the missing vallaslin. She nodded slowly. "Of course, da'len. Come, let us walk."

Callaia joined the Keeper on the trail leading away from the camp and they soon found themselves among thinner trees and crags of granite poking through the turf.

"We must call for an Arlathvhen," Callaia said after a moment of silence. "I have learned... much about the history of the elves, and... our future. It needs to be shared among the People immediately."

The Keeper eyed her warily. "Da'len, you know you will always be welcome among your clan... you have been an inspiration over the years as Inquisitor. Our clan has even earned some small respect as your family. But it will be a shock to them when the other clans see you have abandoned our ways and pledged yourself to the shemlen god and his bride—"

Callaia stopped walking, staring at the Deshanna. "What are you talking about?"

The Keeper's wrinkled fingers gestured to her face. "You are barefaced, da'len. What other reason might you have to remove the blessing of Mythal than pledging yourself to a new god?"

"I'm not pledged to–it was removed with magic by my choice..." She stopped and took a deep breath. "The vallaslin aren't what we think they are. They're slave marks. The Dalish have not been remembering our history, only a corrupted version of it." She paused. "I know because I've been through the eluvians... I walked beside Fen'Harel himself, I've touched him, spoken to him, and he is as mortal as you or I."

Keeper Deshanna stared at her, old fingers tightening around her staff. "Explain," she said in a hoarse voice.

#

Callaia stole a glance at her one-time teacher and mentor as they walked and Deshanna absorbed what she had told her. As Deshanna's First, Callaia would have eventually taken over as Keeper. But Callaia had known as soon as she woke up in Haven that being First of her clan was probably never going to happen again, and had sent word for the Keeper to choose a new apprentice.

"Could you take me and the other Keepers to this... Crossroads?" Deshanna asked. She still seemed stunned, her nut-brown skin pale and ashy with shock. She glanced at Callaia. "It's not that I doubt your word, da'len—" She drew a hand over her eyes. "Indeed I can feel the truth radiating from you... but the others may not. We might need proof. It is... a lot to absorb."

"Of course," Callaia said. "Marquis Briala would give us permission to access the Winter Palace, but..." She bit her lip. "Solas will have re-sealed the eluvians against us. However, I can appeal to Briala's testimony at having been through the eluvians, as well as my companions."

Deshanna's mouth thinned. "A flat ear and your shemlen friends?" She shook her head. "It will have to do."

"You're right, it will have to do," Callaia said in a sharp voice. Perhaps once—five years ago—she would have been deferential to the Keeper, but she'd been the Inquisitor too long to have patience with politicking. "Because I cannot dawdle while the old guard waffles over whether or not I've told the truth. I plan to save Solas, and I cannot stay here for long. I only wanted to offer the truth."

The Keeper nodded, her eyes sad. "This knowledge will tear us asunder," she said in a quiet voice. "There will be those that don't believe, that don't want to believe. "

"You must convince them," Callaia pressed.

"Da'len, I could babble along about this all day, but if they aren't willing to admit to themselves that they may have been wrong, then all the talking in the world won't help."

Callaia blew out a breath. She glanced at her pinned arm, a forever reminder of how Solas had lied to her even while caressing her mouth with his. "I know. But... do what you can. Remind them that we're family, and this is what family does: we tell the truth, even when it hurts, because the lie is the far greater pain."


	51. Prompt: Yardwork

**Technically pre-DAI, but didn't know where else to put it.**

**Prompt: Yardwork**

* * *

Alistair found his wife sitting next to the rose bush he'd planted on their first anniversary. She sat on the ground dressed in close-fitting leggings and one of his older shirts. Her hair, the color of ripened wheat, was up and out of her face.

She was ripping out weeds around the bush, throwing them into an untidy pile beside her. Alistair hesitated a moment, then bent down to join her. She shifted, but did not look at him.

"Lots of weeds," he said after a moment. "Been awhile since this thing was looked after. Better say something to the gardeners."

She didn't reply, only yanked at a particularly large weed with unusual vigor.

"I'm sorry, Elissa," he said then.

She looked at him then, and he was startled to see her eyes red-rimmed.

"Do you think I want to leave?" she asked, voice sharp. "Do you think I relish the thought of being away from you for six months, maybe longer?"

"I'm sorry I got angry," he spluttered, whatever reserves of ugly pride he had shattering at the hurt in her voice. "It was stupid and pig-headed and... and I don't know, I panicked." He reached out to take one of her hands. "Elissa... you've been at my side since the day that I really had to grow up for the first time in my life. The thought of losing you on what could be a fruitless hunt..." His voice cracked. He tried to cover it with a wry laugh. "I've become a spoiled brat." He swallowed the next words that came to mind. _I've become Cailan._

Elissa searched his face with her eyes: blue eyes that, when they had first met, seemed too big for her face. Age had made her more beautiful, not less: the awkwardness of girlhood smoothed into the poise and grace of a queen. His queen, the one who made every day worth waking up for. Maker, he didn't deserve her.

She reached up and cradled his cheek with her hand. He let out a puff of air, capturing her hand with his. "I'm sorry too," she said. "I knew about this weeks ago, and I put off telling you because part of me wants to go."

He frowned slightly. "But you just said that you didn't want to..."

She shook her head, hand dropping. Absently, she began snipping at the bush with a pair of shears, dead sticks and unruly growths tamed under her hands.

"I don't want to leave you—I want you to come with me. But I know that's impossible. But the chance that Avernus may be right and his lead on a cure for the Calling..." Her hand holding the shears dropped and the other curled into the loose fabric that bunched over her stomach. His heart gave a painful lurch at the hollow look in her eyes.

"Teagan is the only heir I need," Alistair said quietly. "He is still young and will be very capable once the Calling takes us."

Elissa shook her head again. "I know you want a baby as much as I do, Alistair." She swallowed. "And if there really is a cure for the Calling, we won't need to worry about running off to the Deep Roads, because we will be there to see our child grow up and ascend the throne when we're both too old and dotty to manage things any more." She resumed clipping with a vengeance.

Alistair inhaled a deep breath. "What do you need, my love?"

She looked at him. "You aren't going to fight me about this?"

He shook his head. "Not any more. But you must promise me to write. I... I don't think I would survive if something happened to you."

"Nothing will happen," she said firmly and did not resist when he tugged on her hands, setting down her shears and crawling over to sit between his legs on the cool grass, letting him bury his face in her neck, her hair, feeling the fear in him shiver across his lips as his mouth met hers.


	52. Dishes

No plot, just domesticity fluff. Cullen/Trevelyan

* * *

"It's late," Cullen said, regret coloring his words. "I should let you go."

Elanor Trevelyan blinked, glancing at the candles. They had been new when lit that evening, but now they were half gone, wax spilling down their sides in mute testimony.

"You're right," she said, nose wrinkling. "I have to go to Orlais tomorrow and it won't do to fall asleep while meeting with Viscount Whatshisface." She stood, gathering the dinner dishes that had started out their evening. It was hard to snatch a lot of time with Cullen. Ever since that lovely kiss on the battlements, she'd felt that every moment with him was precious. Unfortunately, such moments were rare. Between her missions that often took her away for weeks at a time and his duties as Commander of the Inquisition armies, evenings like this one—where they could just sit and talk and enjoy the sheer luxury of doing nothing—were uncommon.

Elanor stacked the dishes on the tray the servant had brought earlier and made for the door. "Well," she said, a bit shyly. "Good night. I'll see you tomorrow morning before we leave?"

"Are you taking those to the kitchen yourself?" He gestured at the dishes.

She nodded. "It's too late to wake the staff up, and I know Cook prides herself on a clean kitchen before bed. It's no trouble. I used to wash dishes all the time at home."

"I'll come with you," he said, smiling, and she smiled back because her mouth couldn't do anything else when he looked at her like that. They walked out his office, down the stairs, and across the courtyard, not speaking, but somehow not needing to. They'd been friends, after all, before they were... whatever they were now. It was nice, Elanor thought, glancing up at him. _Strong and silent. Protecting and proud..._ Cole's enigmatic words passed through her mind and she couldn't fight the joyful smile that curved her mouth.

"What did you mean, earlier, when you said you're used to washing dishes?" Cullen asked as Elanor pushed open the kitchen door with her foot.

"I was a lay sister in the Chantry," she reminded him. "Labor in service to someone else is a tenant of Chantry belief. I dare say you've washed a few odd dishes in your time, Ser Former Templar?"

His mouth mirrored her grin as he lit the lamps in the kitchen to give them more light. "A few, yes."

A large copper tub that Cook used to wash stood in the corner. It was a modern marvel, with a small hole underneath it in the floor that ran outside into a gutter. A hole in the tub-covered by a rubber stopper- let Cook fill and empty as many times as she wanted without too much manual labor. And, Elanor touched the magical glyph on the side-it also had hot water without endless waiting for the fire to heat it up.

Cullen used another modern marvel in the kitchen to start filling the tub-a chute from the rain barrel on the roof collected water and then at a gentle tug, poured that water straight into the tub. It filled within minutes and soon they were both elbows deep into the magically warmed water, rags in hand and chuckling in embarrassment whenever they bumped elbows or foreheads. The tub really wasn't big enough for two people, but they did it anyway.

"Your technique is astonishing, ser," Elanor said, pressing her lips together to keep from laughing. "Where did you learn such graceful scrubbing?"

"Why, my lady, only the finest kitchens the Templar Order has to offer. I can scrub, rinse, and stack better than anyone in Ferelden."

They both laughed and since it was only a few dishes, they were soon done. Elanor stacked the pewter dishes in the cuboards and dried her hands on her skirt.

"Well," she said, fiinding again that the awkward goodbye would be the hardest part. "I guess this is good night again." She reached up tiptoes before he could back away and before she lost her courage, and brushed her lips against his. A quick, warm kiss was all it was, but she could still hear his intake of breath and feel the pressure of his hands at the small of her back, then gone the instant she attempted to pull away.

"Good night, my lady," Cullen said, inclining his head.

"Cullen," she said, biting her lip, as he turned toward the door.

"Yes?"

"Can you... would you call me Elanor?"

His eyes crinkled at the corners and she felt heat rush into her cheeks, somehow knowing that if she was within reach, he would grab her up and kiss her again. "Elanor."


	53. Prompt: The night is dark

Prompt: The night is dark and full of terrors

Some Solavellan feels.

* * *

Solas walked into the moonlit courtyard of Skyhold with a disappointed sigh. The herbs he'd gone hunting for had proven illusive. So many refugees had been pouring into Skyhold lately that the usual places —the old places—that the plants might have grown where either trampled over or nipped to stubs by wandering graze animals. He'd have to bargain with the merchant, see if he couldn't convince her to order some in...

Solas paused at the apex of the stairwell that led into the main hall, blinking stupidly at the Inquisitor, who was sitting, bare-footed on the little landing in front of him. On the exact spot she'd taken the inquisotorial sword and raised it high above the people, in fact.

"You are out late," he said after a painful moment in which they simply looked at each other. He'd been so absent-minded that his hand had nearly reached out to caress the curve of her ear, but hopefully the darkness hid that motion from her.

Callaia Lavellan shivered under the blanket she'd wrapped around her shoulders. "The night is dark and full of terrors," she murmured.

"I'm sorry?"

"Why didn't you tell me what the Well was?" her voice was tired in the night air.

Solas stilled. "You will remember that I begged you not to drink of it —"

"Yes, but you didn't say why," she snapped, then winced, rubbing her temples. "Sorry... I shouldn't yell. I just... haven't been sleeping well since... since it happened."

Solas lowered himself carefully beside her at an appropriate distance. He didn't like looming over her—too many old, uncomfortable memories of long-dead elves prostrating themselves at his feet in desperate thanks for their freedom.

"I had my suspicions," he said in careful tone. "Perhaps I was too circumspect. I was afraid that Lady Morrigan might force her way to the Well and take it as her own if I revealed too much—I misjudged her, however. Displeased as she was, she did not fight your decision."

"Mythal lives," Callaia said, her voice falling into the space after his words like stones into a pond

Solas held his breath, waiting for her gaze to turn accusatory, waiting for... what? Relief mixed with dread warred for supremacy in his gut. But before he could decide what to say, she spoke again.

"Morrigan's boy went through her eluvian... into the Fade, somehow. She asked for my help in retrieving him and in the Fade, Morrgan's mother showed up... only..." Callaia looked frightened for a moment, hunching her shoulders. He had to clench his fingers in the canvas of his bag to keep from rubbing a hand on her back. "She was both Morrigan's mother and... Mythal. She was able to order me as if I were a... a puppet, like those silly shows in Val Royeaux, and I obeyed without conscious thought. I'm under the geas, Solas."

"Did she... ask you for anything?"

"No, but there was the promise behind her words." She swallowed. "She is not finished with me..."

"Well." Solas paused. "Whoever this Mythal is, even she cannot possibly want Corypheus to achieve his goal. I would venture to guess that you are safe from her until that is taken care of."

"I took it to be closer to you," she said, looking at him with the large, luminescent eyes that had become so common in elves over the past few centuries.

"You... what?" He couldn't hide the surprise that widened his eyes and lifted his brows.

"I've studied the old ways from the time I was a child," she said in a soft voice. "But without breaking a sweat, you tell me in two sentences things you've learned from traveling the Fade that the Dalish have striven to understand over decades of scraping together old stories. I thought... well, I wanted the history of my people. I didn't want to lose it. And then... I thought... once I drink of the Well, I'd finally be able to keep up with you, Solas. We'd be equals." She laughed, her voice breaking at the end. "And then on our way back to Skyhold, when we stopped in Crestwood..." She trailed off, her fingers trailing across her cheekbones where the vallaslin no longer rested.

Solas looked away. To address the events in Crestwood would do neither of them good... and though he was firm in his resolve, he couldn't deny that a large part of him would be tempted anew. He stood, shivering slightly in the cool mountain air.

"You were mistaken," he said softly. "The Well could never make us equals."

She seemed to shrink in upon herself.

"We already were."

Solas bit down on "vhenan" before it escaped his lips. He walked inside, leaving the Inquisitor to her thoughts, and went to his room alone.


End file.
